An Unconventional Introduction
by volitaire
Summary: A teenage Mark Cohen is forced by his parents to take classes at his local community center for personal enrichment. He hates the very thought of enduring yet another three hour pottery class and decides to ditch.
1. Chapter 1

I slammed the car door, making the windows rattle.

"I could be doing BETTER things with my time!"

"Honey. You need this. Colleges are going to see all this on your applications and just DROOL over you. We've been _over_ this. You've picked a fine time to fight about it, Mark, in the parking lot. We're already here. Quit your kvetching."

"Look. Mom. Would you just hear me out, for, a second? Honestly. _Pottery_ class?" I leaned close to the car window, waving my hands. "Ooh! Harvard and Stanford are gonna PUMMEL each other over me…"

"Mark. It's not what you're doing, specifically…"

"Ha! Then you admit it. This is stupid."

"No, no, now I never said that. Mark, you've been doing this for two weeks and you pick today to give me a hard time. Just go. Maybe later we'll talk it over with your father. I have to go. I have to get your sister to Singer's reading. He's doing "The Estate" tonight in Beech Hill."

"Wow. Amazing."

"Please stop with the sarcasm. I'm sure we'll work something out."

"Yeah. Try telling that to dad…"

I reached in through the open passenger window and pulled out my camera bag hastily.

"Oh, don't bring that honey. You don't need it. Why do you always bring that? It's going to break and then you're going to get mad at me."

"I just…I like it better when it's near me, okay? Bye."

I was so sick of this. My dad INSISTS that I come to the community center EVERY Monday and Thursday, and INSISTS that I take extra-curricular classes, to "enhance my resume' and broaden my horizons." I could care less how broad my horizons were. Any normal high school junior should be at home from seven o'clock to ten every Monday and Thursday. Not packed in an ancient, asbestos coated art room toiling away at a pottery wheel. I had homework to do…

I entered the pottery room slowly.

The teacher, a burnt-out hippie with bleached hair and unruly eyebrows, glanced up from the pot she had slathered with acrylic only long enough to acknowledge my presence. She grunted, admitting my attendance, and hurriedly resumed painting. This could barely be called pottery _class_. We never learned anything, except for the first day, when the teacher warned us not to stick our fingers under the spinny part of the wheel, or eat the clay. Otherwise, it was a free-for-all.

In the back, two boys perched on the windowsill, flinging flecks of clay at each other. A dried piece hit one of them in the corner of the eye and he flinched so violently he nearly toppled out of the open window. Again, the teacher glanced up quickly to bark, "STAY OFF THE WINDOWSILLS!" but then took no further disciplinary precautions.

A clique of girls giggled naughtily to the left of the boys. They had shaped a mound of clay into a rather impressive, rather hairy penis and were performing obscene acts with it for the boy who had kept his composure on the sill.

Another girl spun away intently near the teacher's desk. She wore cat eye glasses, and kept her black hair short in a mod cut. Her nails were bitten off and painted hot pink, and they eagerly worked grooves and notches into the vase she was constructing. I'd tried starting conversation with her once before, because she seemed like the only other sane, conversation-worthy attendant of this class. That proved horribly wrong. Her name was Nanette, and Nanette hated all other human beings, it seemed. She shot me down immediately. It was just my luck that she was my partner in the tango lessons my father had enrolled me in on Thursday nights. Needless to say, that class wasn't particularly rousing either...

This group was the crème de la crème of oddities. I would've loved to just be a fly on the wall and film them as a documentary, but my camera had to stay safely in its bag until free time.

I sighed and plunked down in one of the metal chair/wheel combos and got to work. I spun nothing in particular and thought of all the other things I could be doing right now. I was currentlyon the verge of a breakthrough in terms of filmmaking. I'd started a serious documentary playing with the concept of solitude. It was a non-verbal piece, just a series of five second shots of people in deep thought, thinking, reflecting, being alone, being introverted. Maybe it was a subconscious reminder of how lonely I really was. I hoped to submit it to the 1981 Greenwich Amateur Film Festival- that is, IF I made the deadline. I wasn't too keen on time limits. I preferred to work at my own speed.

When break time finnaly arrived, I decided I wasn't coming back in this room. I got a drink from the water fountain, and then wandered the halls. I doubted the teacher would take note of my absence. Near the back of the building I discovered an exit to the receiving alley, and I pushed it open and stepped out.

The sky was clear and the stars were just beginning to twinkle. I stood in the alley, taking in a deep breath, and then flipped on the camera and panned the alley and surrounding lawn. Suddenly, from around the corner, I heard someone cough.

Inquiringly, I snuck a peek. A boy my age sat between two trashcans, smoking a cigarette. He flicked a lighter on and off, staring absentmindedly at the flame. He had messy, strawberry blond hair that fell greasily in his eyes, and he wore a tattered army jacket covered in band patches, anarchy signs, and Communist hammer-and-sickles. He wore jeans ripped at the knees, and combat boots.He was the perfect subject!

Without hesitation, I whipped the camera around the bend of the building, trying to film as quietly as possible. I got in probably three seconds of footage before I was noticed. The boy did a double take, then throwing his cigarette aside, leapt from the ground and shouted, "What the fuck!"

I gasped and dashed back around the corner. I could kick myself for invading his privacy. Now I was probably going to get stabbed. My breath caught in my throat, and my heart thundered so loudly I bet he could hear it.

Pressing my back against the cement wall, I inched, unnecessarily slow, around the corner. Peeking only my head into the alley, I held my breath.

"Hey!"

I leapt backwards, nearly knocking myself out on the crook of the partition between the exit door and the alleyway.

Hiding was no longer an effective option.

Well fuck.

_Now_ what was I supposed to do?

I couldn't just stand with my back against the wall. He'd already seen me. He was going to wonder why the fuck I was hiding.

He came around the corner suddenly, making me jump again.

He stood akimbo, blocking an escape route, and bared his teeth.

"Why the fuck are you spying on me, you little fag? Are you a _pervert_?"

I tried not to shake. I feared for my life.

"No! No. I'm not a…Sorry. Look I'm really sorry. I'm not trying to start anything. I just…I'm trying to…I'm trying to shoot a documentary."

He glared at me. "What?"

"A…documentary. I'm recording reality. A documentary, where, like-"

"I _know_ what a _documentary_ is, faggot. Why were you filming me?"

"Um. Look. I'm really sorry. I'll edit you out."

"That's not what I asked. Why were you filming _me_?"

I sputtered, "Uh, because you…um, I don't, uh, I really don't have an answer for you. Please don't punch me or anything. You just looked…interesting. You were- you're…_reality_. …Uh, I can't explain it. But, uh, I really don't think anythinggoing on right now inside that community centeris authentic realism. I mean, people don't go and play recreation volleyball or paint vaseswhen they're on a search for considerable practicality. They… tend to be isolated when thinking about life. I'm making a film about meditation- what people think about when they have no influence from society."

He stared at me quietly, taking me in. "Whoa. Well, that's deep."

I held back a laugh. I wasn't sure if he was humored by me. If I laughed at his perplexity he might…well, kill me.

"Still though, why _me_?"

"Uh, well…you were alone, smoking in an alley. I didn't see any pressures from society out here with you. I mean, maybe you weren't mediating, or like, ruminating the very meaning of life itself, but…uh, my camera doesn't record sound. In the final cut, it'll at least _look_ like you were." I laughed nervously. "That is, if I have your permission."

He stared at the camera and me for a moment.

Then he chuckled. "Yeah. Sure. Go ahead." He shook his head. "That's some fucking movie you're making."

He paused to light up another cigarette, and held one out to me too.

"Uh, no. I don't…no thanks."

He plopped down on the sidewalk, splaying his skinny, gangly legs over the kinky weeds that grew rabidly from between the cracks in the pathway. He picked at a splotch of mud on the sole of his boot. "What's your name, Coppola?"

I smiled. "Well…it's not Coppola."

He looked up at me, cocking his head and shooting me a dubious glare. "You have a problem with answering straightforward questions, don't you? I didn't ask you what your name _was_ _not_. Let me try again." He pointed to his chest. "Hi. My name is _Roger_." Then he pointed to me. "What. Is. _Your_. Name?"

I covered my face, embarrassed. "Sorry. I was just a little flattered. I mean, Coppola is one of my idols. You know,with "Apocalypse Now" and "The Godfather", and he-" Roger sighed and I stopped myself. "Wow. I suck at this." I exhaled noisily, squinted and said, "Hi. I'm Mark."

I stuck out my hand and he shook it. "There. Now was that so hard?"

I snorted. "Apparently." I sat down next to him, resting my back against the wall.

"So, why are you here, besides to create pragmatic silent films about life? You said it yourself- the Scarsdale Jewish Community Center hardly seems the essence of existence."

I shrugged. "I found you, didn't I?"

"Yes, but I wasn't in the community center."

"Touché."

"Were you playing _volley_ball?" He cooed, mockingly, in a baby voice.

"No…"

"You lie."

"Okay, okay. I was making pottery. Are you happy now?"

"Thrilled. Pottery?"

"My mom wants me to-"

"Oh. I see how it is."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do you always do what your mommy wants?"

"Whoa! Hey, hey…you just got _really_ offensive, _really_ fast."

"So, you're a momma's boy?"

I looked at him in disgust. I stood up and said, "So, you're an _asshole_?"

He stood too, and blocked my exit once again. Me and my big mouth. This kid had to be at least two feet taller than me and probably contained more combat experience in his little finger than I had seen in my entire lifetime.

I winced. "Sorry…sorry."

He grunted and stepped back. "Oh, come _on_! Defend yourself _Mark_…You just called me an asshole, and then you apologize. I don't understand! Are you just going to stand there and let me badmouth your mom?"

I was at loss for words. "Do you…want me to hit you?"

He burst into laughter. "Oh are you fucking kidding me? Ha ha ha, no _please_, spare me."

I shook my head and stepped sideways. "Bully."

"Huh?"

"What is your _problem_? I knew I never should've come out here in the first place."

"Listen. Mr. Pottery? Maybe I get off on seeing you squirm. You couldn't have hit me if you tried."

"Hence _bully_."

"So what?"

"Alright then _Roger_, what are you doing here, besides hiding in the shadows, waiting for amateur filmmakers and preying on them?"

"Oop! You hit the nail right on the head there, Mark! That's _exactly_ why I come here!" He gushed in mock enthusiasm.

I sat back down. "No, really. Why were you smoking in this alley, for real?" I held up the camera and pretended to zoom in on his face. "You gave me my interview, and I obliged. I was making a bowl, I got bored, and then I was making a film. You weren't smoking that same cigarette all night, what were you doing before that?"

"What is this, a fucking inquisition?"

I shot him a scolding look.

"Well, I was at my house, jerking off, then I caught sight of my watch and thought 'Whoops! Time to go bully the filmmakers in the rec. center alleyway!' And then I left."

"Beautiful."

"I know, aren't I?"

"There's gotta be another reason."

"Ooh. The boy is smart."

I stared at him.

"What! Why are you _looking_ at me like that? Are you falling in love with me or something, because I'm not into that."

"No."

"Well gee, uh, then _bye_!"

"No. I'm not going to leave. I want an answer. I might need it for the film. There was a particular reason you were reflecting on life in this alley."

He removed his cigarette from his lips and dangled it impatiently from his fingers, staring down his nose. He snorted.

"Well, too bad for you. I wasn't reflecting on life. I was reflecting on death."

His answer caught me off guard and I suddenly was seized with concern. "Oh. _Why_?"

"Again with the _questions_! Well, if you ought to know…" He sneered. "I was _about_ to kill myself."

My jaw dropped.

"But everything's okay now! You came along, nosey and unexpected, at the exact same moment I was gonna do THIS-" A pocket knife flashed from its concealment beneath his jeans, and he made a stabbing motion at his chest. The knife flipped closed before impact, but I'd nearly fainted in shock. Roger howled with laughter.

"Oh my God. Oh my God. What the fuck!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I scare you? Dang. Bad Roger, bad!" He sniffed. "I can never do ANYTHING right. Ever!" He pulled up his sleeve and pretended to slit his wrists.

I watched him in horror. He didn't really, of course, but I couldn't help but notice the deep purple and black bruises patterned up and down his forearm. I wasn't going to prod. He caught me staring and quickly rolled down his sleeve, replacing the knife in his pocket.

"You're…not funny you know."

"I didn't ask for criticism." He began to walk away.

I turned on the camera. He must've heard the 'whir' of the film, because he turned around and flipped me off.

I sighed angrily and went back inside. I packed up the camera, bypassed the pottery room, and went straight for the front step to wait for my mom to pick me up.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later, he was there. I was kind of jumbled inside.

I half-expected to see him there and I half expected to never see him again. I wanted to go out and approach him angrily, and accuse him of at least _some_ kind of interest in the place. I mean- he _did_ come back here.

Instead, I decided to try humor. Or, a lame attempt at it.

I dashed out the back door and down the alley, flailing my arms and screaming, "No! Don't do it! You have so much to live for!"

He forced a nasally laugh. "Ha. Ha….Did you come out here looking for me?"

I wouldn't allow him to play that card.

"Were you out here _waiting_ for _me_?"

I expected him to mock me or hit me or something, but instead, he apologized.

"Yes, actually. I wanted to say sorry for ruining your documentary."

Was he serious?

"Ruining it?"

"Well, yeah. I gave you the bird."

"Oh. Oh, well, I can edit that out…"

"Oh…okay. Okay, good. So…how's the movie coming along?"

"Okay, WHY are you being so nice to me all of the sudden?"

"It's not all of the sudden. I had a week to think about it. Besides, I can't apologize? I really was being an asshole."

"Um…oookay…"

"You don't believe me."

"There is no second first impression."

"Yeah- if you're _closed_ _minded_."

I blinked.

"Look. Maybe I had a reason to be shitty. Ever think of that?"

"My question still stands."

"Question?"

"Yes- Why were you sitting in this alley- alone- at night, pondering life- or in your case- death? I'm not nosey. I just want to know. For the film's sake."

He fell silent.

I sat down next to him. I had the feeling he wasn't going to answer. Instead he asked, "Pottery class?"

"Not tonight. Tango lessons. Pottery is Mondays."

"Hm."

We were both quiet for a while after that. I didn't know what would be appropriate for conversation.

"…So…where do you go to school?"

"Scarsdale High School. When I _go_ to school."

"Oh."

"What about you?"

"West."

"_Prep_?"

"Yeah."

"Ouch."

"Why don't you go to school?"

"Would you stop with the personal questions? Here- I've got a better one. Why do _you_ _go_ to school?"

"To get an education."

"Really. And what does _that_ mean? And don't give me some cookie-cutter West Prep answer. Seriously. Why, do you, Mark, go to school?"

My brain froze up. How come I'd never thought of this before? Why didn't I know why I went to school? It seemed so simple! So I could get into college of course! And then, from there, acquire the skills to work a steady job, eight hours a day, seven days a week, retire, and die.

_What_?

My neurons fired. Why _did_ I go to school? I went with the only logical answer.

"Because my mom wants me to."

Looking satisfied, Roger replied, "I'm…beginning to see a pattern."

Dumbfounded, I said, "Oh my God, so am I." We laughed. "What are you, the anti-Christ or something? What magic do you possess? You just made me _question_ _authority_."

"Deep breaths, Tiger."

"Wow. That's really ironic."

"Well, don't go dropping out of school, okay?"

"Don't worry. You haven't managed to juxtapose that much rebellion into my brain just yet."

"Rebellion." He snorted. "You make me sound so taboo."

"Put yourself in my place. You're practically Charles Manson here."

"I'm a murderer because sometimes I skip class?"

"Metaphor."

"Well, then you're Captain Kangaroo to my Charles Manson. What kid, in his normal, Scarsdale, West Prep life, goes slinking around in back alleys searching for absolute truths through a camera lens?"

"Me."

"Exactly."

We fell silent again. He fiddled with a small, red, plastic triangle.

"Guitar pick?"

"Yep."

"You play?"

"Yep."

"Are you any good?"

"The Well Hungarians."

"What?"

"The Well Hungarians. You've never heard of us?"

"Us?"

"Oh, come on. That's my _band_."

"It sounds like a sick joke."

"It's that too- really? You've _never_ heard of us?"

"No, sorry."

"Well, you don't know what you're missing! Here-" He rocked to the side to yank something from his back pocket. It was a yellow flyer for the band.

"You should come feed my ego."

"Oh…but it's next Monday night…"

"So?"

"So-" I pointed to the building behind us.

"Oh no! Pottery class! The world is ending! It's called, _play_ _hooky_. _Pretend_ you are going, and come with _me_." He explained, as if I were a two-year-old.

"Are you sure?"

"Live a little, Captain Kangaroo."

"How do we get there?"

He pulled a set of keys from his pants and dangled them in my face. I gasped.

"You _stole_ a _car_!"

He reeled back. "What? No! Sheesh, jump to conclusions much? I _drive_." He pointed to a beat up blue Mustang across the parking lot.

"Rad."

"So will you come?"

I glanced back at the building and frowned. "Yes. Yes I will. How much is it?"

"Seven dollars."

"Here." I pulled out my wallet. "I'll give you this now," I handed him a five and two singles. "In case I change my mind later."

"Awesome."

"…You're really called the Well Hungarians?"

"We _really_ are."

"That's so funny."

It was quiet again, for a longer period of time. I racked my brain for a conversation starter, but all ideas fell short. The silence grew awkward. He broke it.

"Wanna get high?"

"What? I asked, turning quickly to face him.

"Weed." He clarified. "Grass. Cannabis. Pot. Mrs. Mary Jane. Do you want some?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I prefer to not alter reality."

He took in my reasoning and shook his head. "Okay. But I would prefer to."

He pulled himself from the ground and gestured to his car. I got up and reluctantly followed. He unlocked his door, got in, and then reached over to pull open the lock on the passenger side. I scanned the parking lot, and then hesitantly slid into the seat.

"What?" Roger laughed. "I'm not going to _kidnap_ you!"

I shrugged.

The interior of the Mustang was rather messy- soda cans, fast food packaging, condom wrappers- were strewn on the floor of the front seat. A pin-up of Hustler magazine's Miss June- Faye Dunaway- was tacked to the driver's side sun visor. In the backseat, a beat up Fender acoustic lay across the red vinyl seat.

Roger reached across my lap into his glove box, digging under a heap of napkins and his registration, to pull out a fairly large supply of weed in a plastic bag. My jaw dropped.

"Holy cow."

He fiddled in his pocket, pulled out a rolling paper, and went to work, producing a picture-perfect joint, and cramming the bag back under the napkins.

I watched with an intent look of horror. I'd never dappled with drugs, nor had I ever been this close to a real-live person consuming any.

I rolled down my window and scooted towards it, in fear of a contact high.

Roger opened the sunroof and started up the vehicle. The dashboard glowed to life, and Aerosmith blasted deafeningly out of the speakers.

Nervously, I adjusted my glasses.

We decided to go cruising along the Hudson until it was time for me to get back.

I loosened up over the course of the drive. I feared the stoned Roger might be unpredictable, but he proved even mellower than the sober Roger. He turned the music down, eventually, so we could chat, and we took a slow ride on the outskirts of town once the river had been bypassed.

"So where do you live?" He asked.

"Eastchester… Scarsdale."

"_Eastchester_…_Scarsdale_…" Roger mocked, falsetto. "Yeah, I live in Scarsdale too. But Highland Road. My mom's a nurse, so she can pay property tax, but she split and my old man- fucking bastard- doesn't…" He trailed off and stared intently at the road for a moment, in silence.

"You got a girlfriend?" He changed the subject.

"…No…" I answered reluctantly. I felt lame, but I had the feeling if I lied, he'd detect it.

He chuckled. "Shame. I bet there's a load of nerdy chicks over there at West with the hots for you."

I blushed.

"Aw. That's cute cause it's true." He laughed again.

"Do _you_ have a girlfriend?" I asked. The condom wrappers at my feet seemed to defeat the purpose of my question, but I asked anyway.

"Nope." He replied.

"No?" I said, a bit shocked.

He simply shrugged.

We fell silent again, so I told him about my family- our hypocritical practices of Judaism, my older sister Cindy, who was fairly cool coming from _our_ parents, our conservative lifestyle, my dad's pompous job and high expectations, my overprotective mother…

When I was through, he merely said, "Must be nice." And no more was said about anything until we returned to the parking lot.

"I'll see you around." I said, as I exited his car. "Thanks for the ride."

"Don't forget about the show." He reminded me, waving the flyer out the window. I took it from him and assured him, "I won't. I paid."

He grinned, honked the horn, and then recranking the music, peeled out of the parking lot.


	3. Chapter 3

Monday couldn't have arrived soon enough. I was eager to experience Roger's musical talent, and I nearly bolted into the alley to meet up with him.

He was pacing between the two trashcans when I jogged up, and the second he saw me he clapped his hands together and immediately took off toward the Mustang.

"Come on!" He called over his shoulder. "I gotta grab something from home first." He motioned to his car, and I had no choice but to follow.

I was barely in the passenger seat before he squealed out of the parking lot, sending gravel showering out from underneath his tires.

"I gotta grab my amp. I didn't get a chance to before." He gasped, between panting, impatient breaths. We peeled down numerous back roads, disregarding the residential speed limit by several miles per hour. We crossed a viaduct to the east the east side of town, where the scenery seemed to change. Not drastically, but visibly, it was no Eastchester… It wasn't unsightly, but it was what my dad called the "poor rich". Basically, these people couldn't afford landscapers and housemaids. They were, uh…normal.

We pulled a sharp left turn off of Highland Road and went a few blocks down, to a street called Robertson. Roger's house was on the right side of the street. It was a rickety old Victorian, egg white, crumbling fresco siding, huge, paned windows outlined by periwinkle vinyl shutters. Cracked red brick steps lead to the elevated front porch, where a slashed screen door dangled by its bottom and center hinges. Several wind chimes and other knick-knacks, worn from the elements, were suspended from the porch overhang, and tinkled lightly in the May breeze.

We pulled into the long concrete driveway that ran alongside the house. On the garage door, in black, Old-English style lettering 'Davis' was painted.

Leaving the car running, Roger popped the trunk and gestured for me to come inside the house. We entered through a side door.

The interior of the house was even less impressive than the outside. Normally, I wasn't one to judge, but it was really bad. It smelled too.

A sticky kitchen floor, caked with dirt in the mortar filled cracks, ran through to the back of the house. A skinny calico cat emerged from underneath a dingy stove that appeared ancient, and not at all suitable for cooking on. The cat stretched, and after noticing me, darted after Roger down the hall. I followed.

The cat lead me to a living room of sorts. The plush carpet under my feet had probably once been fluffy and white, but now was worn through to the hardwood floor in some places, and had turned a sickening shade of deep gray.

A brown lamp with a crooked yellow shade, very much a relic from the sixties, shed a thin beam of light over a man asleep on a tattered, brown leather recliner. The newspaper was spread over his gut, and a half-eaten Swanson dinner lay cold and abandoned on a TV tray in front of him, accented by empty beer cans. The television blared.

"Mark." Roger whispered loudly from a staircase behind the sleeping man. "Don't wake him up. Come here."

Tiptoeing, I bypassed the man and crept up the stairs. At the top Roger alleged, "That's my dad. Don't wake him up. And don't let him know we're doing this, okay?"

"Okay…?"

A small hallway lead to Roger's room. It was the last door at the end of the hall. Except, there was no door.

"…No door?" I asked.

Roger sighed, seemingly at me, and then said, "My dad took it off."

"Why-"

"Because." Roger cut me off.

I began to feel a little apprehensive about being in this house.

Roger's room looked like I'd imagined- a lot like his car: messy, a bit dirty, rock posters covering the walls, random things thrown about everywhere. In place of condoms however, (Now I knew why they inhabited his car. _It_ had doors.) was rumpled clothes and old food. I waded my way through the piles, to his bedside, where he struggled to hoist an amp into his arms.

"Do you need help?" I offered.

"No, I got it-" He was cut short by a shout from downstairs.

"Roger? Boy! Are you home?"

Roger threw his amp on the bed and tossed up his hands.

"Roger, I hear you up there."

He sat down on the bed, and then stood up again. "Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck." He sang quitely. "**FUCK**! What? What dad? What DO you want? What could you POSSIBLY need from me?"

"C'mere Roger."

"I'm _busy_, dad."

"You ain't busy unless I say you're busy. Come down here."

Roger seemed to forget I was even in the room. "No! Fuck you!"

"_Roger_, get your _ass_ down those stairs, Right. Now."

Head down, Roger stomped out of the room and descended the staircase.

"What. Do. You. Want."

"You can't-" His father stopped talking when I appeared at the foot of the stairs.

"-Well! Who's this Roger?"

Roger glanced over his shoulder and looked a bit startled. "Shit." He swore under his breath.

"Why hello there young man! Who _is_ this Roger? Is this your _boy_friend?" Roger's father chuckled, and then erupted into a coughing fit. Roger blushed angrily.

"I have to go."

"You-" Roger's father continued coughing and then hacked up a glob of gray phlegm onto the Swanson dinner tray. He wiped his mouth. "You're not going anywhere, boy. You gotta do the _grocery_ shopping. We're out of fucking milk and bread." He stopped to cough. "And beer."

Roger leaned in, very close to his father's face, and jabbed him in the shoulder with his index finger. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, "Dad? Get off your ass, and do it _yourself_." He turned and went back up the stairs.

"Roger! You are going, TONIGHT. Bring this little fag with you, I don't care." He hurled one of the empty beer cans at me. It missed my head by an inch. It sailed across the room and hit the bookcase, sending the cat skittering down the hall again. Wide-eyed, I chased Roger back upstairs.

He was already coming down the hall, fumbling with the amp. When he saw me coming from the opposite direction, he pushed me with one hand, rather hard, back toward the stairs. I stumbled and grabbed the railing for support.

"_Go_!" He commanded, edgily.

I walked briskly past his father, who was now standing. I avoided eye contact and went straight to the kitchen. I stood with the cat at my feet, licking itself.

"Where do you think you're going!" His dad roared.

"Dad!" Roger cried. There was a loud '**thud**', and then a splintering 'crack!'

It was dead quiet for a few seconds, and then I heard Roger mutter, "Ha! Great. Lovely. Thanks dad. Thanks."

"You're welcome." His dad replied.

"You are such an asshole. Fuck you. **FUCK** **YOU**!" Roger screamed. There was the sound of a fist making contact (I only recognized this because my dad watched professional boxing) and then it was quiet.

Footsteps clomped down the hallway, and I prepared to run, but Roger's father called, "I hope you brought the grocery list!"

Roger appeared in the kitchen, minus the amp. His nose bled profusely. He stomped right past me, staring blankly ahead, but smacked the back of my shoulder with the palm of his hand- a sign to follow him.

I jogged behind. He slammed the trunk of the car violently, got in, and slammed his door closed equally hard. He pounded the steering wheel with his fist, using his other hand to wipe his nose with his sleeve.

"He broke the amp."

"Oh…!" I didn't know what to say.

We backed out of the driveway.

"He broke the amp." He repeated. He didn't seem to be talking to me.

We drove in silence until we reached a big house a few blocks down. Several cars were parked in the driveway and along the street. Roger checked his nose in the rearview, and then rolled up his sleeve to conceal the blood smears.

"Where…are we?" I asked quietly.

Roger turned slowly to look at me. "At the show." He said impatiently. "Where do you _think_ we are?"

"You're still gonna play the show?" I asked, amazed.

Roger raised an eyebrow. "Um, fuck yes?"

"But your amp."

"There's other amps. It's just that, that one was-" Roger sighed. "New."

"Oh…" I said again.

We exited the car and went in through the side. We bypassed the kitchen on this house and went straight down to the basement.

It was extremely spacious, even bigger than the house itself, and off to the right was a makeshift stage. On it was a drum set, two guitars on stands, a bass, and…several amplifiers. Stage lighting hung from the piping above the stage. Two tacked up bed sheets served as a backdrop.

About sixty people filled the area front and center. The back of the basement was lined with chairs, and there was a pool table, but no one occupied that area. Thick clouds of cigarette and pot smoke wafted up to the ceiling, hanging heavily above the mass of mumbling people.

A boy, a bit shorter than me, with spiky hair and many facial piercings, approached us from behind.

"Hey man. Geez, we thought you were never gonna show. Where the fuck were you?"

"Sorry. I got, caught up. Uh- hey Joe, this is Mark."

"Oh. Hey Mark." He stuck out his cuffed wrist and I shook his hand.

"Mark, this is Joe, our bassist."

"Nice to meet you."

"Yeah. You too."

"Mark's never heard of us." Roger said. I sensed a bit of embarrassment in his statement.

"Oh. Well, leave it up to Davis to recruit new fans. You like punk?"

"Uh…I don't kn- I listen to like, Elvis Costello."

"Geek rock. That's okay. That's cool. Stick around though. I know you'll enjoy it. Make yourself at home, we gotta set up and we start in-" He glanced at his watch. "Ten?"

"Sounds good." Roger complied. "Go mingle or film people or something." Roger commanded me. "It's gonna be awesome, just wait." He beamed.

Roger seemed to put on a whole different air in this atmosphere. He appeared happier, less out of place, and it looked like he'd forgotten the previous traumatizing events completely.

Very sadly, I had a gut feeling Roger's everyday home life was similar, if not worse, to what I'd experienced tonight.

And what's more, he'd adapted. For one thing, I defiantly hadn't, and I doubted I ever would. I tried to shake my nerves. I thought of "mingling", but then I remembered I wasn't good with big crowds. I preferred seclusion. I took a seat in one of the empty chairs, and sighing heavily and watched Roger wander gleefully backstage.


	4. Chapter 4

Maternal instinct- _mothers_ in general, are something I'll NEVER understand. Ever. Mine especially, being the queen of paranoia, was overly neurotic. The only explanation had to be a built-in sensor for trouble afoot.

The moment I got in the car after returning from the show, without missing a beat, without even _looking_ at me, she said, "You smell like cigarettes and pot. Start talking."

And it was all downhill from there. I was grounded before I even set foot in the house, due to a lack of a respectable explanation. I went straight to my room.

However, for now, that was perfectly fine with me. It gave me plenty of time to reflect on Roger's show.

Honestly, I hadn't known what to expect. As mentioned, The Well Hungarians were a punk band, entailing furious chords changes, searing bridges, and catchy hooks that were gone before the song had sunken in completely. It made for an ineffable experience, and I wished I were more extroverted, or at least had other friends here so I could leap about in the surging moshpit. I hadn't established any fan credibility to even tap my foot to the beat just yet. So I sat in the back and watched in amazement and grinned like an idiot and filmed every second of it.

As much as the Hungarians captivated me with their angsty punk fury (I admit I'd undoubtedly deleveloped a taste for the genre within minutes) it was the few ballads that held tighter.

As it turned out, Roger was their lead singer and well as the lead guitarist, and he sang more fervently, and with more raw _passion_ than any mainstream artist in comparison.

Indeed, he had reason to…

The second he stepped on the stage, his persona clarified that in front of that microphone was were he belonged. He released every last inner demon onto the screaming crowd, whirling about and chugging away at his guitar.

The other people in the band looked like interesting characters. Joe-, whom I'd been introduced, stood solidly and showen no visible signs of enjoyment whatsoever. He strapped the bass tightly around him and played rigidly in all seriousness.

The drummer- as is stereotypical of drummers- was wild. His hair, which was pink, flew every which way. I imagined he'd taken ecstasy or something like it before the show, and I spent the moments staring at him on pins and needles, expecting him to keel over of hyperventilation or cardiac arrest. He never got that lucky.

The other guitarist was there for the iconography. He resembled Roger in appearance, but in no way housed much mystery. He was probably just some kid they picked up from the neighborhood that knew how to play second guitar and had heard of the Ramones or some shit like that. He was a "poser" to my knowledge, and the only reason he was probably in this band was because they needed him. Still, he had the unwritten consent to NOT contain his joy, unlike me.

The lyrics of the songs weren't cheesy- nowhere near it, actually. They were almost tear jerking. But the song titles on the other hand were a tad embarrassing: "Sell Your Soul", and "Twilight Suicide", for example. I imagined Roger wrote the songs and the drummer named them. If that was the case, I wondered why Roger allowed it. Maybe he didn't want to be the boss over _every_thing in the band.

The crowd _worshipped_ them. You could pick the hardcore fans from the outsiders, and people like me. Many sang along, uninhibited, and several wore homemade band shirts. These people stood closer to the edge of the stage, but no one seemed to mind. I hypothesized that the level of band knowledge tapered off as one moved further away from the stage. If this was true, well, I was alone in back.

Several concertgoers caught onto this, and in between sets bounded over to me to shake my hand or clamp me on the shoulder reassuringly.

Many of them were stoned, and the verbal exchanges consisted of, "Hey man! Who're you? You know _Roger_? Awesome. That is so awesome. This _band_ is _so_ _awesome_! Awesome. Well, see you around man!"

I did a lot of smiling and nodding in agreement throughout the course of the night.

When there were about four songs left in the second set, a girl walked over to me.

I froze up a bit.

I _hated_ talking to girls. I _liked_ girls.

A lot.

But…my only interactions with the female species were basically with my mother, my sister, the gossipy old Orthodox Jewish ladies at temple, and all the naked women. In my head.

…When masturbating.

I wanted to disappear. That…wasn't happening.

"Hi." She said, blushing.

She was blushing? Amazing. Maybe she thought I was cute.

The concept made me blush in return.

"Hi." I replied.

"I've never seen you around before…" She remarked.

"Yeah, no… I uh, just recently met Roger-" I pointed. "He asked me to come."

"Oh! Cool. So…how do you- how do you like it so far?"

"Oh man! It **AMAZING**!" I gushed. My voice cracked and was louder than I planned it to be. I blushed even redder. "I mean- I really like it."

She giggled, but not rudely. "Hi. I'm Jenny." She did an awkward little wave/courtesy, and sat down in the empty chair next to me.

"Mark." I said. "I'm…Mark."

"Oh. Nice to meet you Mark."

"Yeah! Nice to meet you too Jenny." Boy, did I suck at talking to girls.

A few grueling moments of silence passed, then she said, "I saw you filming before."

"Oh? Oh! Yeah, yeah, I uh, I'm into filmmaking."

"Really? Oh, that is so cool!"

We fell silent again. She tugged at the hem of her miniskirt and I twiddled my thumbs and stared into my lap. This was really terrible.

I got pissed. I wanted her to go away now. I had nothing more to say to her, and I didn't want to sit here anymore feeling like I had to make polite conversation, when I could be enjoying the last two songs.

I sighed.

"Uh- is there a bathroom?"

"Oh yeah, um, upstairs, to the…left. It's like, a blue door."

"Okay. Thanks."

I waved goodbye, symbolizing that I planned to pee for a purposefully long time, and that she shouldn't expect me back before the night was over. She didn't look very disappointed, and I thanked my incredible lack of charisma for that.

I found the bathroom and peed for a whopping three seconds. For no apparent reason, maybe to kill time, I filmed the bathroom. Then I filmed the neighbor's yard. There was a bulldog on a leash tethered to a grill.

I sat on the toilet, listening to the bass drum's vibrations through the floor, and Roger's raspy vocals drifting through the AC vent.

Soon came the traditional "thank you and goodnight", the screaming crowd, and eventually the sounds of people leaving.

I washed my hands, and made my way back down to the basement. A few stragglers spoke with the band members. I spotted Roger packing up his electric guitar into a case.

"Roger…that was **AMAZING**! Really, I can't even begin to describe how much I loved that."

He shifted his shoulders boastfully. "Hate to say I told you so."

We left soon after that. I waved energetically at Joe on the way out, and clapped furiously. He flashed me a grateful thumbs-up.

To both our dismay, the preshow events came rushing back to Roger the minute we stepped outside.

He did not say this out loud, but it immediately showed on his face and in his mannerisms. He grew tense, and his temper flared up.

He kept his jaw set and said nothing all the way home.

Before I got out of the car, I turned, and looking him in the eyes, said, "Look, if there's _anything_ I can do-"

"There's not."

"No, really-"

"Please Mark. I am so _fucking_ sick of, 'Oh Roger, Oh God, Oh no. What can I _do_!' _Don't_ be a saint. You aren't Jesus Christ, okay? Oh that's right. Jesus doesn't _exist_ for you. Well then, great. That makes two of us."

It felt like something stabbed me in the heart. I took a deep breath, and tried not to sound like that last comment _really_ worried me.

"Uh, hey… I got your entire show on film- silent of course, sorry- but if you'd like to come over and watch it sometime…"

He smiled weakly. "Really? Cause that'd be fuckin' awesome."


	5. Chapter 5

"Mark!"

"What?"

"MARK!"

"_What_!"

"Come _here_!"

"Why?"

"Someone's here!"

"_Who_?"

"I don't know, I've never seen him before."

"Oh no. Cindy! Don't let him in! Mom will freak!"

"Why, is he dangerous? I already did."

"Shit! Where's mom?"

"Not up here."

"Shit! Cindy…go smuggle him up here or something, hurry!"

"I swear to God Mark, you _need_ to find different friends."

"Go!"

"Mark? Is someone here? You're still grounded you know. It hasn't been two weeks..."

"Okay mom, gimme _two_ seconds."

"Mark Cohen…"

"Two SECONDS, mom."

I raced off after Cindy down the stairs.

Sure enough, Roger stood, disheveled, on our doormat.

He looked so incredibly out of place I burst into laughter before I was even off the stairs.He shot me a look that read, "Why the **FUCK** are you laughing at me?", but uncomfortably said nothing.

"Roger! Uh, wow. You…are…in my house! Uh, this…is Cindy-" I pointed.

He said nothing. He just managed to look even more uncomfortable.

I raised an eyebrow and continued awkwardly, "And Cindy, this…is, Roger. Who…I have no idea why he's in our house…um…"

I really didn't have any idea why he was here. Or _how_ he was here for that matter. I'd last seen him over a week ago, and I hadn't spoken to him since then, let alone given him our address.

Nonetheless, Cindy stuck out her hand and said, "Nice to meet you."

In an extreme show of internal conflict, Roger politely shook her hand, then promptly dropped it, leaned close to my face, and whispered, "Listen, can I talk to you? Like, outside or somewhere?" He glanced at Cindy.

"Uhh…"

"Mark! Who is _here_? Oh! Hello there!" My mother trotted down the stairs, looking _very_ much like a fifties housewife with her hair up in obnoxious pink curlers, wearing a floral apron, hands buried in matching oven mitts.

Roger glared at her.

Immediately she put up her guard. Scowling, she removed her oven mitts slowly, as if preparing for a fight. Calmly, she smoothed the front of her dress, turning her head to the side slightly.

"_Mark_…?"

"Mom, this is Roger."

To Roger I whispered, inaudibly, "_Please_ be polite."

To me he whispered back, "I don't have time for this, can we go outside?"

I looked from Roger to my mom, and then said, "I'll be right back. We have to go outside."

"_Mark_…" She warned.

"It's really important."

I grabbed Roger's elbow and tugged him out the door.

He look around nervously for a few seconds before speaking.

"Look. Mark. Um…do you think, like, I could stay at your house tonight?"

"What? Uh-"

"Listen. I don't want to sound like a pussy or anything but my dad…he like, fuckin' snapped."

"Oh no."

"You know, whatever dude, but, can- do you think- I'll just sleep in my car or whatever in your driveway, I won't even come in. I just can't, like- I don't know."

"Okay Roger, I don't know how this makes you a 'pussy', but I'll defiantly talk to my mom."

"Listen, Mark." He took hold of my shoulders so I was facing him. "It's **not** because I'm _scared_, okay?"

"Roger-"

"I just can't- I'm going to fucking kill him, I swear to _fucking_ God! If I stay in that house anymore- I'm going to stab him in his fucking gut. Seriously I _am_."

He dug his nails into his palms and started rambling, pacing the driveway. "I can't go to the guy's houses, because- like- not Joe either. He might- my dad knows- I can't Mark, I'm _gonna_ fucking kill him! Look. I'm sorry. No- I can just drive until tomorrow. I can park-"

"Roger!"

He inhaled and looked at me.

"I'm going to go talk to my mom. Stay out here for like, two seconds."

He nodded.

I went into the house, but then popped my head out the door.

"And _don't_ leave." I told him.

Right away my mom was on my case.

"What is going _on_?"

"Mom, come here." I spotted my dad in the living room and pulled her into the kitchen, out of earshot.

"My friend Roger is outside."

"I know, and you are not supposed to have friends over-"

"Mom! Mom. I am not _three_, okay? I need you to _listen_. His dad hits him-"

"He what!"

""Ssh! His dad is not cool, at all, okay? He needs to stay _here_ tonight. I am not asking your permission. He needs to."

With that, I turned to go fetch Roger.

"Mark!" My mother called after me.

I turned slowly to face her.

Sniffling, she threw her oven mitts down on the table and whispered, "Well of _course_ he can stay."

I smiled, and nodded, walking to the door.

Then I quickly turned around, ran to her, threw my arms around her, and then went outside.

Roger was sitting cross-legged on the lawn, the window on the front door casting a beam of light over his frame.

He looked up when I opened the door.

I flagged him inside.

With a look of genuine relief, he leapt to his feet and tagged at my heels.

My mother, flustered and excited as ever ran into the hall. "Oh, _hello_ there Roger!"

Roger blushed.

Before he could blink, she was hugging him. His arms were plastered to his sides, and his face was crammed right into her ample bosom.

He tolerated her, and I did nothing to stop her.

I glanced over at Cindy, and we smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

My parents did not go over well with Roger.

From what I'd perceived, he was not an open person, and although I knew deep down he was capable of compassion, he had trouble showing it. Whatever happened between him and his father, or maybe just life itself, drove Roger to be silent and bitter. I wondered what prompted his sense of humor and sincerity when one on one.

But then again there was a lot about him that I didn't know.

For some miraculous reason, Roger joined my family at the dinner table. When my mother stood over him to dish out the food she'd prepared, he pushed away from the table slightly and said quietly, "No, no I can't."

My mother insisted, as expected.

Again, Roger replied, "No. That's okay. It's your food. I don't belong here."

My mother shook the serving spoon at him and said, "Oh no honey, you're our guest. It's perfectly all right, take as much as you'd like."

But then firmly, almost fiercely, Roger growled, "_No_."

I had to butt in, out of courtesy for Roger, saying, "Mom. Stop. He doesn't want any right now. I promise that if he gets hungry later I'll feed him."

I grinned at Roger but he pretended to ignore me and stared blankly at his empty plate.

Dinner was discomfited.

For the first few minutes, the only sound was the clinking of forks on plates and the occasional passing car out front.

My sister tried telling us about Adam- her boyfriend of three and a half years. They planned on collaboratively buying a flat on Delancy Street in the City, and as of late the deed had officially become theirs.

This was joyous family news, which sent my parents into an uproar of congratulations, but I couldn't help but think that Roger was taking this as bragging.

He just averted his eyes and stared at his plate until I was through eating.

When he saw me clear my plate he perked up a bit, as if this were his ticket out of the family atmosphere. He was correct.

As we walked up to my bedroom, I said, "You better not tell me you're hungry later."

He just smiled.

Once in the safety of my room, I asked him, "So how did you find my house anyway?"

"Phonebook."

"Oh."

We were quiet for a few minutes. I sat down on the edge of my bed and watched Roger pace the perimeter of my room.

"Mark- I kind of want to leave."

"You what? Really?"

"I mean, it's not your family or anything, but I need to think about some things."

I was quiet for a second- I felt offended, so then I said, "Well…can you think about them for my movie? I need some more footage."

This was my way of telling him that I didn't want him to go, without sounding desperate.

He sat down on my bed and asked, "…So, what are you going to do with that movie anyway?"

His interest was a good sign. I sat down on the floor, facing him.

"Well, I was gonna submit the finished product to a film festival, but I have no way of making other copies, so I think I'm going to concentrate on editing it and then sending the best pieces as part of an application for college."

He nodded and said, "I like that idea."

"I'm glad." I replied.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Julliard." I laughed. "But on a more _realistic_ scale, I'd really like to go to Brown…University. You know…Rhode Island. For filmmaking."

"Hence your movie."

I paused a moment and then agreed, "Yeah. Do you…- what do you want to do?"

He went into unattached dinner table mode. He sighed.

"I wanna move to the City, eventually…_Hopefully_. I'd like to write songs. And play music. Play clubs. But I don't know. Me and the other five thousand musicians in New York. I don't really have a backup plan."

I thought about this for a moment.

I shrugged. "So don't make one. You don't need one. Just do it."

He stared at me.

I continued.

"**I** don't have a backup plan. I don't believe in a 'plan B'. I'm disregarding everyone else, any outside force. _Nothing_ is absolute Roger, just as nothing is impossible. That's…my philosophy anyway. I don't impose much on people, but I think you should hear me out on this. I mean, I could get rejected from _every_ college I apply to, and my camera could go up in flames, but that's not gonna prevent me from buying another one and trying something else! I only have one passion and I plan to mold the rest of my life around it. Correct me if I'm wrong in saying we're similar there."

"How the fuck are you that sure of yourself?"

"_Sure_ of myself? Ha! Are you kidding me? I spend the majority of my time in a darkroom developing pictures of other people! I'm sure of the world around me…"

He just stared, urging me to continue.

"What else should I say? I…my parents want me to study business…Or law. Or medicine. What? Can you _honestly_ see me as a Wall street baron, or even a doctor? Maybe I have the potential, but I don't care. That's not what I want out of life. Even my parents, who've managed to influence me thus far- 'Do I always do what my mommy tells me?' A lot of the time, but that's my choice. Once I'm out I'm gone. And I mean that in more ways than one."

"…You really think I can do it?"

"Yes Roger, that's basically what I'm saying."

"Damn Mark. What in the hell happened to, 'Oh my God, I don't know _why_ I go to school!'"

"What? That was a _good_ question. I really made me think. But this is personal. I go to school because it's the law-" I shot him a sideways glance, "And because it's going to help me get somewhere in life. 'Somewhere' might be Hollywood screenwriting, or some corner of Fifth Avenue begging for change to buy film."

Roger gave me a look of such total respect it made me blush.

"Are you always this way?"

"What way?"

"Optimistic? Inspiring? Determined?"

I snorted. "Me?"

"Do you not hear yourself talking?"

"Come on Roger, tell me you don't think that way too? I saw you onstage. I heard you sing- I heard your voice-" I put up my palms and wiggled my fingers in his face. "There was destiny in that voice."

He chocked back a laugh.

"Yes, I think you can do it."

"But what if I don't?"

"We really do accent each other, Charles Manson. For every ounce of optimism you add a pound of pessimism. You will."

"But what if I don't..."

I shook my head. "But you will."

He lowered his eyes and clenched one of his fists, pounding it on the mattress. "You can't _know_ that! _Fuck_ you, Mark. You're just trying to make me feel better about tonight."

Another mood swing. I'd ventured into uncharted territory without a map.

"I'm not trying to make you _feel_ anything! I'm trying to convince you that you're not the worthless piece of shit that you put yourself down to be! Actually, I wasn't even doing that! I was telling you about my plans for the future. Sorry if I got out of hand. Sorry if I got your hopes up."

He opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it and sat quietly for a moment.

He said at length, "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. I understand."

He snarled and threw up his hands.

"How could you _possibly_ understand!"

"Okay. You know what? Maybe I can't. Not all the things you have to think about. But you don't…have to do it alone. I'm not a fucking therapist. God no. But I'm a friend."

He wrung his hands. I looked at him, not to intimidate him, but to assert myself.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." He fell silent again. Then he said, "Not now. But someday."

Wow.

I nodded.

I hope he held true to that. It was a good enough answer for me.


	7. Chapter 7

"Give me strength or give me mercy- Don't let me lose heart- Twenty percent amnesia-  
From rage to anesthesia."

"Mark stop _sing_ing! I have a _head_ache."

"_So_ do I!" I sang.

"Then stop singing, dumbass!"

"But-I'm trying to annoy you."

"Okaaay…It's _work_ing. What the fuck do you _want_? What the hell is going on in there?"

"Um, well! I…am…going crazy! Help."

"No you're not."

"_Yes_, I am. Roger, look at this."

"What?"

"You can't see it from in there. Come in here and look at it. Ha ha ha…"

"_What_?"

"Why the fuck is it _doing_ this?"

"There's something wrong with you. Why would you ask _me_? Does it _look_ like I know."

"I don't know. I- ha ha…oh Jesus. This is just fucking great. How the fuck are we gonna fix this before tomorrow?"

"We? How am I involved?"

"Ohh! Roger help me!"

"Call a photography shop!"

"I _DID_! SEVEN of them. It is SUNDAY. They are _closed_."

"Ha ha ha. Well, you are in some deep shit."

"Don't laugh…hahaha…"

"_You're_ laughing."

"I know I am! Because it's fucking funny- you're right! Ohhh…no it's not. No it is not… Oh God. Roger _do_ something…"

" Ugh! Stop _whining_…Are you _drunk_? What do you want me to do, sing to the projector?"

"Nooo…perform a miracle! Fix it. Gouge my eyes out. Shoot me in the head."

"Hahaha…"

"Stop _laughing_ at me! Hahahaha..."

"Stop laughing at yourself!"

"I _can't_!"

I collapsed onto the couch, covering my face. I curled into a ball and laughed and laughed and laughed.

"I fucking hate you Roger. Hahahaha…"

"I didn't break it!"

"Ohhh, Ro-ger…WHY did you make me _go_ last night?"

"Oh you little bitch, I didn't make you. 'Come on Roger, come on! Drive me! Let's go to the party! Doh-dee-doh-dee-doh! Oh, one more hour Roger. It's been an hour already? Aw, fifteen more minutes…five more minutes, pleeease? Ten more minutes!' _WHOOPS_! It's _four_ in the fucking _morning_! How _ever_ did _that_ happen? Do you want to go home **now**, Mark?"

"Shut up, I hate you!"

"You don't hate me, you hate yourself."

"Oohhh…yes. Yes I DO! Aw SHIT. Shit shit shit. DAMNIT! I know how you can help-" I peeked my head out from the corner of the couch and pointed.

"Throw the fucking projector at the wall. Just- just, go ahead and throw it. That wall there. Just chuck it."

He wandered over to the camera and picked it up.

"Oh my God Roger put it down! Don't touch it!"

"Hee hee hee…but _you_ said-"

"Don't be an asshole."

"Too late."

…In summary, the postmark deadline for the film audition submissions to Brown was tomorrow, and at the moment I was putting the finishing touches on my project. I was happy, Roger was spending the night as usual (We'd figuratively adopted him ever since that night he showed up at our door. He practically lived here now.

No one minded.

Maybe his dad did. My mom wanted to call Child Services, but Roger still refused to talk about him. But he showed me scars.

I had a qualm he didn't even go home once he left our house. It was almost obvious. He was like a packrat with food, eating generous portions of my mom's cooking, then asking me for bags of cereal or fruit to pack away when my parents were gone. He was grungy. He wore the same clothes a lot. I let him have some of mine. We let him use our shower.

But I honestly don't think he went back home much. A few nights I sat up wondering if he ever went home at all. I wondered if his dad had died of rage or alcohol poisoning, alone, in that house, and was rotting away in his recliner. Nonetheless, Roger's eighteenth birthday was approaching and he'd be legal. He had a job somewhere on the east side, tuning instruments for miscellaneous events. Apparently it paid enough for him to maintain his car and buy weed and guitar picks. The important and exciting thing was, he could move out. This was an open book for both of us. We spent hours in my room planning out his life. But for now, he was here.)

Anyway, at the moment I'd didn't give a fuck about Roger.

He was reading on the couch, I was busy in the living room, the projector winding along nicely, it was operating and oiled and cranking along just _fine_ and then, all the sudden, for no good reason, for karma, for God's idea of an malevolent practical joke-**SNAP**! The film caught.

Out of nowhere. Just snapped.

Crinkled the negatives. Jammed up the teeth. The handle stopped turning. The camera jerked forward. The aperture smashed against the leg of the tripod. Over five and a half _months_ of work in a crumpled heap on the coffee table.

And Roger had a hangover, rendering him nearly incapable of help.

And the deadline was tomorrow.

"Tomorrow." I moaned.

"ToooMORRow, ToMORRow! Bet yer bottom dollar that tomorrow-"

"Roger I HATE YOU!"

"Mark is duuumb…"

"Oh dear. What am I going to do?"

"Ummm…Not go to parties the night before you have to finish something important?"

"The entire rest of my life is at sake here Roger!"

"Gee…I guess you should've had a plan B."

"Ooh, that stings. I am going to strangle you."

"Just because shit happens gives you no right to kill me. Why don't you just have your parents buy your way into college? They can afford it!"

"No! No. Don't _even_ start. This is _mine_. I expect nothing from them. I may have an incredible missed opportunity here, but at the very least I just lost one of my masterpieces."

"…Well there you go. You just said it yourself. _One_ of them. Submit something else! Your screenplays are fucking amazing. Send them a play! You have fifty million other movies made, collecting dust in your file cabinets. Your grades are qualifying. Your essay was on target. You'll be accepted! Calm down, damn. Send something else, fix whatever the fuck you broke in the meantime, and once you're accepted show 'em this at the interview and seal the deal. It's fucking simple. Do you have any aspirin?"

I stared at him. "I don't think you get it."

"What? Okay then, Tylenol?"

"No! This was the…this was…_it_. This film was _right_. It was the only film that felt complete. That doesn't happen that often. I'm sure you understand- like, when you're writing songs. Do you ever get little snippets that just urge to be put on paper, but then you can't go anywhere from there? You can't find a way to connect them or make them into something meaningful? Don't even answer- I know you do. It's just like that with films. This has a beginning, a middle, and an end. And it doesn't just have structure, it has substance."

"So bring them that pile of shit on the table, dump it in their laps, and say, 'Listen. This is where all my hard work and determination got me. I really tried. But then life happened.' If they really want you they'll pick through the scraps."

"No they won't."

"Do you have any aspirin yet?"

I tried to frown and then burst into laughter again. Genuine laughter this time though, not ridicule of my own plight. What was it about Roger that made life so bearable?

"…Wait a minute Mark, you're being thickheaded. How long was that movie?"

"Like, thirteen hours worth."

"And how long does the audition clip have to be?"

"Ten minutes."

"Dumbass. I think you are drunk."

"Roger-"

"Mark, tomorrow is twelve hours from now, plus the nighttime, that is _if_ you don't absolutely need your beauty sleep. Go get some scissors and cut off the fucked up part. Dear Lord I hope it was the footage of me."

"But I already said, it's not that might miss the deadline, it's that I lost my work…"

Roger pulled himself from the couch and went into the bathroom to dig in the medicine cabinet. He called out into the living room, "From what I have learned over these past few months, you are the king of pragmatism. What is more important? Making the deadline that will change your life," He came back in and stared at me. "Or throwing everything away for something you have your whole _life_ ahead of you to repair?"

He popped two aspirin in his mouth and went to go and get a drink of water.

If only he lived by his own beliefs.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's** **Note**: _This has nothing to do with the story…but for some reason I can't read anyone else's stories on this site anymore! Was that something I did? Is this a common problem? I want to read them... Just thought I'd let you know, so it doesn't seem like I'm all "Read my story, but I won't bother with yours!" Believe me, I'm bothering! To no avail! Thanks for all the reviews. I'm on an updating kick, but I this is the last chapter I had pre-written, so now I gotta figure out what to do next. In the meantime, I'm gonna **try** and read other people's stuff!_

----------------------------------------------------------------

Roger's eighteenth birthday was approaching quickly.

Almost too quickly. A lot of things loomed that neither of us were even mildly prepared for. The remaining days of summer were spent pouring over ads, an ocean of newspapers spread over the floor of my room, highlighter marks glowing an occasional, furious neon.

"Okay so, _why_ is this three bedroom cheaper than the one bedroom and they're on the same block?"

"For the same reason this apartment has no air conditioning but is in my price range."

My dad knocked on the door and we both looked up from our searches.

"Do you boys need any help?"

"Yeah, do you wanna buy Roger an apartment?"

"Very funny. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yep. We're good."

"Okay then. Roger, whenever you're ready to contact the realtor just let me know."

"Thanks Mr. Cohen. I really do appreciate this."

"No problem at all."

My dad was such a huge fraud. No problem my _ass_. He didn't want Roger in our house for the longest time. He called him a scumbag and a leech. ("What is he doing besides wasting our water?") He was hugely skeptical, and highly suspicious and concerned every time we went somewhere together. ("He's a bad influence Mark. How do you know he's not going to end up just like his father, or worse…?") My dad was only helping Roger with business phone calls because he wanted him _out_. I didn't contribute to the conversations. I wanted to help, and planned to stick by him.

My dad shut the door.

"Mark, why are looking in the Scarsdale paper?"

"Um…"

"Give me that. I'm not staying here." He shoved the New York Times' classifieds in my face. "This."

"Ooh! Roger- Here's a _great_ opening in Central Park West, only $3,500 a month!"

"You are not helping me. Come on, be serious. That's not even in there."

"Ooh! Roger! Here's an even _better_ one! Central Park _Bench_! It's _completely_ free, for the duration of your stay, and comes _standard_ with hobo piss and pigeon shit! Automatic air conditioning in the winter and heating in the summer! And it's even bolted to the ground so you don't have to worry about burglary insurance! The only downside is, you have to bring your own plastic bags to keep your shit in."

"Mark, you are a little shit, did you know that?"

"No…I hadn't a clue."

We searched for a few more minutes, before Roger pulled himself from the floor and brushed off his knees. "I give up. For today."

"I think you need a roommate. I don't know how you're going to manage this yourself. I mean, not unless the entire band moves to Manhattan together and pitches in for a place. That is, only if you guys score a gig somewhere. A recurring one…"

"I could always go into prostitution…" Roger said this so nonchalantly he made me choke on my spit. I gurgled and he laughed at me.

"Anyway, that's what I was thinking about. Tim isn't old enough yet to leave home, and Andy is twenty-one, but he's got his own little place somewhere. Joe is in one hundred percent, but we'd have to convince Andy to let us move in with him, or him to ship off with us. But I think he'll do it. If he's really in it for the band and believes we can actually make it out there. We'll just have to find a new guitarist."

"It's gonna be hard." I told him.

He corrected me with a cheesy grin. "No... It's gonna be hard _rock._"

Roger's birthday arrived the following week. My mom wanted to throw a party, but I wasn't sure if that was such a good idea. The night before his birthday he was sleeping over at our house, but in the morning I awoke to find his sleeping bag empty. His car keys were still on the table.

My mother was _extremely_ disappointed at this, and so she spent the morning hanging even more streamers and balloons to make up for his absence.

"When did you hang those?" I asked her. "Last night?"

"Ooh! Yes, doesn't it look great?"

"You are so weird. How late were you up?"

She just giggled.

I went to work on fixing the projector most of the day, and about 3:00 my parents left to a mandatory city council meeting necessitated by my father's cabinet position. My mom went along for the gossip and doughnuts.

Cindy had moved out at the beginning of the month, and was now fully moved in with Adam.

Luckily the rest of the family was gone when Roger decided to show up.

When I opened the door, I immediately assumed it was his father again, the way he was fidgeting about and shaking.

But upon closer observation, I realized he wasn't paranoid because he was fuming, but because he was high. To clarify, he'd dropped some PCP.

He told me this later of course, because he seemed incapable of staid conversation at the present time. He was babbling about a loft apartment with hardwood floors, constantly repeating himself. He kept assuring me how perfect the apartment was, and how Joe was supporting it too. And how they were gonna play music on their record player…

He continually squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them again, taking hold of the doorframe while speaking.

I grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, slamming the door. The sound made Roger jump probably five feet. I didn't mean to slam the door on purpose- I think it was a subconscious combination of me being mad at him and fear of him being seen this way.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" I asked quietly, a bit irate.

"Oh- Mark! It's gonna be great, we found one! We found it!"

"I _know_. You'd mentioned that already. Why don't you sit down or something? Are you okay?"

His knees buckled sideways and he nearly missed the chair, but managed to make contact and put his head down in his arms.

"Roger- are you-" Keys in the lock.

"MA-ark, we're HO-ome! Is the birthday boy here yet?"

Oh. My. God. Why the fuck were they home so early?

"Roger get up!" I hissed.

"But seriously Mark, it's like the best birthday present ever, I gotta tell you about it."

"…Not right now. Come on." I pushed his shoulder.

He stood up and walked in a little circle.

"We gotta go to my room."

"Why? Can I tell you please? Can we tell _them_?"

"No, we can't tell _them_! I don't know what the fuck is wrong with you but I will not let them see you this way!"

"Your kitchen smells AMAZING. Did your mom make bread? It smells like BREAD. Okay, so the apartment is in the East Village, okay? Which is going to be fucking amazing because- it's the East Village." He snickered. "And…it's really cheap. Which is SO convenient because we all plan to be starving artists! Because we're so fucking _trite_! HA HA. Can you just see us? Damn it smells like bread. So anyway, Joe is being refined about it and he was playing opera before- you ever listen to opera? Sometimes I used to but my dad hated it and he broke all my records. I like opera. My mom used to listen to it. Have you ever really, really listened to it? Okay, so Mark, you _have_ to see this place. It's so…"

"Oh THERE he is! Happy BIRTHday darling!"

"Mrs. Cohen, are you making _bread_? It _looks_ like fucking bread in here!"

This was too surreal.

I sat down in the kitchen chair for a moment and put my face in my hands. Then I leapt up and took a hold of Roger's shoulders and pushed him to the stairs.

"We'll celebrate in a minute mom. Roger isn't ready."

"Oh-uh, okay!" She waved her fingers. "You're going to love your cake!"

"Cake! Haha. Oh. Mark lemme tell your mom!"

I smacked him gently in the back of the head. "No! Shut up! Go upstairs."

"OW. Whoa. Whoa, ow. Ha. Dude, it's my _birthday_.

I am _eighteen_.

I am _gone_." He pointed down the hallway, out the window. "But, okay, okay. I'm going to have the _experience_," He made little quotations with his fingers. "'Start spreadin' the news' and all that bullshit. Fuckin' CBGB's! Joe thinks we're gonna revamp Studio 54 for God sakes, but I don't know…that neighborhood's being gentrified to all hell, but here we come! The Well Hungarians! The little avant-garde band of brothers! And Andy's place is in Hell's Kitchen- that's no fucking _paradox_. I think he's a racketeer. Hahaha…Dude, we should eat my cake. Oh man. It's just gonna be music, music, MUSIC, and the city."

I was so happy for him. Seriously, I was so overjoyed, but how could I know for sure if he was right about everything? At the present time anyway… I wanted to congratulate him and jump up and down and really celebrate, but did he really get an apartment? Or was this just distorted reality?

My dad came up the stairs behind us.

" 'Cuse me boys," My dad chuckled. "I have to use the little boys room."

Roger leapt down three stairs and landed in front of him. He fastened his hands to my dad's shoulders energetically.

"MIS-ter Cohen. Listen. We FOUND an apartment. Whoa…Did anyone ever tell you, you look JUST like Warren Beatty? No seriously. I mean, right now, you really do. MARK! Your dad _IS_ Warren Beatty! You're fucking Warren Beatty! Bonnie and Clyde, dude!"

My father reeled back and wriggled from Roger's vice grip. In a very parental tone, he said, "Mark? What is going on here?"

I threw up my hands and sank to the steps. "You know dad, I don't know. This is all Roger."

"We got the apartment, that's what's going on! Why isn't anyone fucking _celebrating_!"

"Young man, you will _watch_ your language when you are in my house! I have had _enough_ Roger. I don't know what is going on here, but I think the police need to be called."

"What! Dad! No!"

"What, hang on, what!"

"No no, Mark, Roger is obviously under the influence. And that will not be tolerated under this roof. Either he leaves, _right now_, or I will make the phone call. And Mark, you have nothing to say in this matter."

"Dad!"

"Mr. Cohen, look, I'm really sorry! I just- hahaha…Warren Beatty."

"Roger!"

"Okay, that's it. I've had enough. Nancy, bring me the telephone!"

"Wh- no! No!" Roger looked at me, then back to my dad, panicking. He shifted his weight, grabbing the handrail and whipping down the stairs. He ran across the hallway and out the door, not even bothering to shut it behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

I received a four-year photography scholarship to Brown.

I was notified in November of my senior year and _completely_ flipped out. Brown's Department of Modern Culture and Media had one of the _best_ cinematography programs in the entire country. Brown was Ivy League. And I was in. I could hardly conceive the notion, but nonetheless, I didn't even bother applying to other colleges the first couple months of my senior year.

And Roger had indeed succeeded in finding a place to live- a large warehouse- turned- loft on Avenue B, near Greenwich.

He called from a payphone a few days after the acid incident, apologizing and explaining until his quarter ran out. I agreed to meet him in the rec. center alleyway to talk face to face.

The gist of it was basically he had taken the PCP to celebrate. And there was no other rationalization. Ha. Some celebration… Even though I was absolutely furious, and he had severed my trust, I tried not to sound too motherly when bitching him out. Just concerned and angry.

At first he apologized some more, and then he got mad and told me to shut up about it and leave him alone. The argument went in circles for a good hour or so, until we found something better to talk about. We overlooked the matter and got right back on the issue of life after high school. …In _my_ case anyway.

Roger left for N.Y.C. sometime after Christmas. At the time of our talk, I didn't know I'd been accepted yet, but I just assumed I'd be off to college in the fall.

"…But Roger, I won't be anywhere _near_ the city…"

"Yeah, I know, but when you're back for Christmas vacation or whatever you should just come visit."

"My parents are going to want me _home_ for Christmas vacation Roger, _not_ at your apartment."

"Just tell 'em, you're not _coming_ home for Christmas one year. Tell 'em you're staying on campus to study or something…"

"I suppose I could…"

"Do."

"Yeah, okay."

"And maybe Mark…when- when college is all done, you can…produce films in…your very own loft studio, courtesy of Roger Davis and company…"

"Roger. Are you-…asking me to move in with you?"

"If your campus wasn't so fucking far away we could be roommates starting next _fall_."

"Oh my God. Really?"

"I don't see why not."

An apartment in the Village. A bohemian wet dream. Jack Kerouac's picturesque setting for the Beat Generation. My kind of people. Home to hundreds of artists from Burroughs to Ginsberg and back. What a perfect place for a filmmaker.

Needless to say, I agreed.

--

Roger and I saw each other very frequently throughout the remaining school year. My mom allowed him to come over when my dad wasn't home, because she maintained a certain understanding. And my sister adored him as well. She had a soft spot for him ever since she'd met him, and over Christmas break, somehow, she convinced our parents to let Roger and I stay at her place with Adam.

Joe, and Roger's drummer Andy were already moved into the Avenue B apartment- they had been since August. So we packed up what little belongings Roger had and brought them in a suitcase with us to Cindy's place.

My dad was aggressive about the ordeal because I'd be _alone_ in the city, with _Roger_, for fourteen days. My mom was worried because I'd be alone, in the _city_, for _fourteen_ _days_. But I sat her down and talked it out with her. The tipping point was the understanding that this was the last major time I'd get to see Roger, until really, after college. He'd sold his car and was prepared to move in with his band mates. He'd stay in New York, whereas I'd return home and finish high school. Then it was off to Rhode Island in August. There was no gray area.

She obliged, and talked to my dad. By December 21st, Roger and I were in the backseat of my sister's Chrysler, bickering clandestinely, Roger's suitcase occupying the space between our feet.

Once in the city, we were rarely in Cindy's apartment, except to sleep, and even then we snuck out. We explored the city together, taking it in, and as always, planning. We took the subway to Alphabet City, and Cindy and I helped him settle into his loft.

He was correct about it being huge. It encased a vacant lot on 11th Street, and Roger's two other band members spoke of constructing a stage there, for local performances. Joe's uncle, who also lived in the city, co-owned The Pyramid Club. Now that Roger was…"home"…they could finally start playing gigs.

On Christmas Eve we sat on the roof of Roger's apartment and looked out at the frozen city glowing below us. Roger didn't say much that night, but the only thing that really stuck was, "You were right Mark. It _really_ happened."

Six days later I was home for New Year's.

--

The remainder of high school blew by without a trace. Cindy and I worked out a system where she would come to get me for things like Easter vacation and Fourth of July. Every time I was in the city, I would visit Roger for the majority of the days. He would totally isolate himself from his other band mates when I arrived, and we'd spend the time traversing the city and catching up.

And even for the brief amount I'd see him, he still remained the best friend I'd _ever_ had, and vice versa.

--

The first day of college hit me like a brick.

My alarm sounded at 4:30 in the morning. I was all packed the evening before, and our car was loaded and ready for the four-hour drive, at the break of dawn.

My mother was also in hysterics…at the break of dawn. Before I could even hit the 'off' switch on the beeping clock, she was in my room, on my mattress, wrapping her arms tightly around me and sobbing her eyes out.

"Oh, my baby boy is _leaving_! Oh Mark honey I'm so _proud_ of you! This is your big day! Oh honey. Are you excited?"

"I really couldn't tell you one way or another. I'm trying not to think too much about it."

"Oh, I suppose that's best. Oh honey. Well! I guess I'll let you get up and get ready! It's time." She burst into tears again. "It's time to let you go..."

I rolled my eyes, but my heart hurt a little. I hugged her back, for a long time, and ended up crying myself.

When I eventually pulled away I asked, "Didn't you go through this with Cindy?"

"Yes, but it's hard. It's so very hard. You're my baby boy. It's just gonna be me and your father now…"

I wiped my eyes and laughed. "So buy a dog!"

"Honey." She said seriously, perking up a bit. "There's another reason I came in here this morning, besides to cry sad tears at you."

"Really? What's that?"

"Well," She bit her lip and continued. "These are also tears of joy Mark..." She paused for suspense."...We're expecting grandchildren!"

I dropped down to my mattress. "Cindy!"

"Yes honey, your sister is pregnant!"

"Holy cow! Well! Well, what a morning..."


	10. Chapter 10

The drive up was nerve-wracking. My father's besetment came out in the form of reckless driving and a short temper.

And…my mom just cried.

When we got out to unpack, I hugged my dad for a long time, promising to keep in touch. "Especially when I need money." I added. I wanted to end our separation on a humorous note.

I promised my mother I'd dedicate my first major screenplay to her, and then gave her a quick hug. "If I hug you for any longer," I said, "I have the feeling you are never going to let me go."

I stood on the Doric steps of a building called Manning Hall, and watched them pull away until they were out of sight. Then I took a deep breath, slung my camera bag over my shoulder, and pushed my way into the crowd of incoming freshmen.

--

The admissions counselor looked pained to be stuck behind that glass booth.

"Salutations!" He whined sarcastically. "This is Convocation. Hallelujah and welcome to Brown. You're gonna wanna take _these_-" He ferociously shoved my signed credentials into my hands, "past the Van Wickle _gates_, they're the big gates over _there_ with all the people, you can't miss 'em." Jabbing his finger in the air at a row of fenestration, he handed me a lanyard, commanding me to walk in that general direction to get my student I.D. taken, and, "Next _please_."

I didn't talk to anyone, even though the building and surrounding lawns were packed to the gills with people.

They all looked _mental_, wandering around like handicapped zombies, and even _that_ was a tame description. They also resembled fish, gaping wide-mouthed at the high glass ceilings and Gothic architecture, whirling in circles, eyes peeled for a familiar face. They stumbled around with a mob mentality, following each other like cows, (with no regard for other people's luggage…) as if the person in front of them had a slighter clue to where the _fuck_ they were supposed to be going. I had no clue either, but at least I tried mapping out the campus from the paperwork given to me, instead of rambling around haphazardly! All the chaos seemed to funnel out from the Van Wickle gates in one massive line. Even this small attempt at order wreaked havoc, as the tightly packed students fidgeted even more than Roger on PCP, waving their formalities and receipts in the air, threatening deadly paper cuts to anyone stupid enough to stand within a two foot radius behind them. Each student's luggage was splayed at their feet, waiting to be picked up and moved elsewhere, and more than once a student with his or her nose buried in a campus brochure tripped and fell flat on their face, feet entangled in the straps of someone else's backpack.

And they called themselves Ivy Leaguers…

It was the making of pure comedy, and I was sure to capture every second of it on film. I struggled to keep the camera in focus, and lug my heavy duffel bag at the same time. I had a few close calls with the distracted and traumatized, but kept all my clothes in the bag and all the gears in the camera.

It was a long and tumultuous walk from Manning Hall to my dormitory. Apparently, my place of residence was somewhat off campus, on Waterman Street, in a house aptly named Watermyn. It wasn't a frat house per say, but an independently established campus residence, owned by the college. The walk got even more harrowing as I put distance between the throngs of people and me. I began to wonder if I was even in Providence anymore.

Out of nowhere, several earth-shattering explosions were heard to my left. I had the reflex to duck and take cover, but a group of jocks clad in Bear's teamshirts- probably juniors, moseyed past me and laughed.

"Don't freak man. It ain't bombs. It's hazing."

Another one smacked his friend a high five and agreed enthusiastically. "Yeah man. Freshman Kill Daaaay… Hee hee hee… Dude, you should get over there, it's wicked awesome to watch."

"Wait, are you a freshman?"

My heart rose to my throat. I swallowed. "Um. Yeah?"

They giggled immaturely and one of them said, "Oh, don't worry. _We_ ain't gonna do nothing. Not _now_ anyway. Hee hee hee. Just stay away from the gates, and _watch_ your back. Heh heh…"

"Uh, oh. Okay. Okay thanks. I will…"

I let out a gust of air and kept walking. A few last, smaller explosions went off, followed by some screams and squeals of delight. I kept my head down and tried not to look obvious, or too much like a timid freshman. Explosions? I wondered. The worst thing for Freshman Kill Day I'd endured in high school was an Atomic Wedgie and some left over cafeteria celery shoved down my crotch. These seniors were getting advanced!

At last I reached Watermyn. It was a fairly small building compared to the others I'd seen, but was well maintained and very homey. Checking the papers, I climbed a small flight of stairs to my room, which was on the right side of the hallway. According to the plan, I was to have just one roommate. I wondered if he (or she? Was Watermyn co-ed?) was here yet. Maybe they'd been blown up a few minutes ago, and I wouldn't have to worry about company. I chuckled at my cruelty and made my way down the hall. I was excited to get in and call Roger to relay all I'd seen and heard.

The door to my room was ajar, and someone's voice, a male, sounding frantic and a bit incensed, poured out into the hallway.

"What do you mean you can't ship it _today_? Luke, I need it _today_….To-day. No, no… Today. Lucas…Call Fed-Ex….Yes!…I don't give a fuck!…What?…No! Just ship it!"

I knocked quietly enough not to interrupt, but loudly enough to be heard. Whoever was inside didn't appear to hear me, so I slowly pushed the door open and peeked my head in. The person was on the phone, angrily wringing his coat collar into a spiral. He looked slightly older than me, and he was a bit shorter and more athletic andhusky. He was African American, with a closely shaved head and nicely tailored, nicely pressed khaki slacks and a starched whiteblouse and navy tie.

"What? No I don't want to talk to Georgia!…Luke, honestly, would _you_ want to talk to Georgia?…I rest my case! This is totally out of hand…Yes, yes, I know. …I _know_…No! I'm at _Brown_…. No, I just GOT here. …Just. Got. Here. …Lucas, you're breaking up. Someone's here, hold on….What? No, someone's _here_. At _Brown_. In my room….I think it's my roommate. Luke, I have to go. …To. GO! You're losing the connection…I'm hanging UP Luke. GOODBYE! I'll call you later. …What? No!…Just ship it!"

He slammed down the receiver, and looked up at me, a bit flustered.

I stepped back and said, "Um, hi."

He threw his coat on the bed and laughed. "Hi. Sorry you had to hear all that. My friend Lucas, geez, I guess he's incapable of getting things done on time. But hello. My name is Benjamin. But you can call me Benny. Everyone else does." He rolled his eyes. "Even my business partner." He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. "Are you my roommate?"

I laughedas well,and shook his hand. "I imagine so. Hi. I'm Mark."

"Nice to meet you Mark. Again, I'm really sorry you had to hear that. Well! Roommates, hey? I kinda already claimed this bed, only because I needed somewhere to drop my shit and get on the phone. But if you really want it I'll switch."

"No, no, that's okay, this one's fine."

"Well great. I think we'll get along all right! That is, _if_ you don't promise me you'll ship me something and then _completely_ disappear until the day before it's needed and claim you forgot. Ha ha ha…"

"Nope, nope. I think we're all clear in that area. I don't think I'll be around much anyway. And believe me, I've had my share of missed deadlines and unreliable friends."

"Well, then, we've got something in common. Is this your first year?"

My heart rose in my throat again. He didn't look like a senior, but I didn't want to take that chance.

"Yes." I pretended to cower."Please don't haze me!"

He erupted into laughter and clapped his hands together. "Oh, don't worry dude. I'm a sophomore, but I ain't that bigheaded yet. No worries. What's your major?"

"Well, uh, presently, film," I held out the camera proudly, "With a minor in technical staging."

"You've got everything going for you. I hear that department's all it's cracked up to be. Good luck with that. Maybe if we send Luke a clip of me having a mental breakdown he'll HURRY UP AND SEND IT!" He screamedat the inanimatephone.

I laughed again.

"What do you do?"

"_Business_ and _real_ _estate_." He cooed in a very commercial tone.

I raised an eyebrow. "Oooh…"

"I know, exciting right?" He laughed sarcastically. "Well don't let me keep you from moving in, or whatever it is you plan on doing. Right now I have to get to the library for a fax machine. You can only imagine _why_." He chuckled. "I'll come back later and we can chat or whatever. Just…don't strip naked or decide to become a freaky axe murderer while I'm gone, okay?"

"Dang. I was planning on doing both."

He laughed heartily, shaking his head. He walked out the door.

"Do you mind if I use the phone?" I called after him.

"Sure go ahead!And if anyone calls for me, _hang_ _up_."

He giggled all the way down the hall.


	11. Chapter 11

_Riiiing..._

_Riiiing..._

_Riiiing..._

_Riiiing..._

_Riiiing..._

_Riiiing..._

_Riiiing..._

_Riiiing..._

_Riiiing..._

_Riiiing..._

_Riiiing..._

_Riiiing..._

_Riiiing..._

_Riiiing..._

_Riii_- "Whaaa**AAAA**aatt! I am _SLEEPING_! I don't care _who _you are. Call back later. _Bye_-"

"Rogerit'sMark!Don'thanduponme_please_it'slongdistance!"

"_Huh_? Wh- Who? _Mark_? Oh! Ohh! Maark! _Hi_ Mark!"

"Hi Roger."

"Hi Mark! You woke me up!"

"Oh. Sorry. Really? We're in the same time zone. I figured three would be a safe time to call."

"Nope! I was sleeping…but that's okay."

"Roger, are you high?"

"Huh? No _mother_, I am not _high_. And hello Mark, great to hear from you too! Jesus. …Are you in college?"

"Yessir! That's why I'm calling. I wanted to tell you about it."

"Awesome. I'm glad you called. Really, I'm _so_ fucking relieved to hear your voice, you wouldn't even believe me. It's amazing how sickening these guys plus three straight nights of O'Doul's can do to you. …Anyway, do tell."

"Aw Rog. I miss you already. Okay, so from what I've experienced this place is _insane_. There were freaking _explosions_ for Freshman Kill Day!"

"Explosions? Like, fireworks?"

"No, I don't think so. I think someone might've actually been blown up."

"Hah. That is insane. Be careful. Send me footage."

"Well…I didn't actually catch any of it. I just heard it and ran."

"Typical."

"Yeah, _thanks_. Oh! And I have a roommate."

"…I'm jealous."

"Don't be. He seems pretty cool but I _know_ you wouldn't like him." I glanced nervously out the door. "He's pretty preppy for your taste."

"Aw. Sucks. Stab him in his sleep. Hide all his underwear in the fountain. Burn his portfolio."

"You are so terrible sometimes. Besides, I'm not jumping to conclusions. I said _I_ thought he was cool. We've been hanging out. He's like, the complete opposite of you."

"Oh no. Can I talk to him?"

"No, you can't talk to him. _Why_?"

"I wanna creep him out."

"Roger you are so weird."

"I want him to know that I am the fucking coolest person ever. And that he is priveleged to have you as a roomie. Cuz you know _me_."

"You are so conceited. I think you are high.Listen _rockstar_. How's it going over there?"

"How do you think it's going? I'm fucking _Roger_ _Davis_! Yeah! We're making enough to pay the rent, that's for sure. We've got _quite_ the fan base." He put on a British accent. "We've become a quaint little local sensation, if I do say so meeself."

I laughed. "I wish I could be there."

"Yeah- not always. These guys, are...I don't know." He muttered contritely.

"Aw, chin up Rog. Only three more years."

"Yeah, okay, whatever you say Mark. Go make movies. Then come do, 'Behind The Music: The Well Hungarians.' M.T.V. presents- a Mark Cohen doc-u-mentary!"

"Dream on, Steven Tyler."

"Stay out of the water, Steven Spielberg."

"Will do. Love ya Rog."

"Yep. Come visit."

"Okay."

Click.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** _gasp An OC! _

_Yes, it is an OC. But only because Mark and Benny aren't the only two people that attend Brown. And love makes the world go 'round. Or some shit like that._

_I don't like her. Maybe I'll kill her a few chapters from now._

_I keep getting chapters done insanely fast, so hopefully I'll have them all up and done with._

_-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

"No, no, no, no, NO! No! How many times do we HAVE to go over this! This is _obviously_ not working!"

"Yes, it is! All the blocking is perfect! I don't know what you're watching, but you're obviously not watching the stage!"

"Yeah- um, it's perfect in a _dry_ rehearsal! I'm not trying to take over your play here, but we have to move that…that, what is that, a tree? The lantern has to go there, otherwise the followspot doesn't show up and your Iago just gets _blasted_. He's gonna blind the audience!"

"No! We have to keep the tree there! He does his aside away from the captains in the courtyard and that's the only thing we have separating him from center stage!"

I sighed. "Okay watch."

I climbed up onto the stage and held out my arms. "Dan, hit the followspot. Right here on me."

"See Mark? That looks perfect!"

"No! Okay Dan, now flip on the left lantern."

"Yah I'm blind! And I bet you're blind too! Can you see me? Can you honestly concentrate on what I'm saying when you're _squinting_ to see me? This is too much light! Iago better walk and talk or we can just kill all the overheads and have it…I don't know, dramatic and dark. You choose."

"But…I don't… I don't know…I just… Okay. You're right. You're right! I give up, I surrender. You're here for a reason. Dan come down here, we gotta move the fucking tree. Othello's gotta stand in the tabs I guess. Mark Cohen and his Magical Technical Magic makes it impossible to do anything how we wanted it. Are you through reprimanding me now Mark? Can you leave us be and go conduct anarchy or whatever it is that you do?"

"Yes, I'll leave now. I got my way. I'm content. I'm coming to see this though, June. All my cues better stay where I put 'em or I'm running backstage and vandalizing the costumes. And then you won't know what hit you. I'll be like, the Phantom of the Opera. Except, I'm…the phantom techie."

"You are so spiteful Mark, all the _time_. Do you realize this? Maybe you've got something up your ass? You should really pull that out and maybe you'd stop stressing for once. It'd be like a deflating balloon. Just pull it out and 'pop' '_ffffftttt_…'"

"Macbeth."

"What? Ah! Mark! Ssh! Don't say that in here!"

"MAACBETH! Bye guys! I'm goin' ass fishin'."

"When a piano falls on you once you leave, I'm not saving you."

"Thanks June. Good to know I've got you as a friend."

--

I was hired as a stagehand for Brown's fall, for-students-by-students-play, 'Othello'.

I liked 'Othello.' I liked Shakespeare. I liked money. I liked teching. I liked teching for money. And I also liked June, the play's director.

Can you see why I agreed?

But unfortunately, when we weren't bantering playfully or flirting, I had my head up my ass, barking orders and doing everything in my power to get my way, passing it off as a bad attempt at theater skills.

She appreciated my help and reveled in my company, making passes at me and making damn sure to walk a little too close to me when brushing past in the niche backstage. She was cute, she was sexy, she was funny, she was nice, and she drove me _wild._

I wanted her. But I hadn't had a girlfriend since…ever. So this was a problem.

I don't know what the _fuck_ was wrong with me when it came to girls. June, being just one entity in the amazing showcase of the species, brought out my worst. It was a side of me I failed to recognize in self-analyzation or something. It disappeared completely any other time, as if it were an alter ego crouching in wait. That side of me was _annoying_. It made me clingy. I was whiny and bitchy and desperate, oh _Lord_ did I sound desperate when I thought a girl was onto me. I'd shift the entire conversation to myself. Tell her about _my_ feelings! Tell her about _my_ problems! I couldn't even pretend to be a tad bit interested in the girl! Was it a cover-up? A way out?

Who knew! All I knew for sure was that I liked girls but I didn't like everything else that came with them. The _process_. I don't know how it worked for other guys, but when I had a girl in my head, or God forbid, in my _sights_, the results were disasterous. Rancid daydreams about the weirdest sex- kinky shit I hadn't even seen in pornos. Yearning desire, untriggered night sweats, a shorter attention span and sporadic hard-ons at ungodly hours. For those periods, life was a living _hell._

Benny caught on, which was just fucking wonderful. I thanked God, for the present time, that Roger wasn't my roommate, because I knew if that were the case the ridicule would be a million times harsher, with the sole intention of making me miserable. As if this huge crush wasn't succeeding in that field already.

"Did you two get busy yet?"

"Benny…"

"What? Is it so fucking hard? Just take her into your arms, look her in the eyes and say, 'Let's go. Right now. You and me, behind the curtains.' Even I think that's hot."

"Well, whoop-dee-doo for you. I'm not doing anyone behind anybody's curtains. I happen to like my job."

"Love and business do not go hand-in-hand."

"Thanks for the advice, but if you don't mind me asking, what exactly have you ever done that's so romantic?"

"Boy, I've had more ass than you have appendages. And that's_ including_ your penis."

"Leave my penis out of this. Did you_ love_ any of those? Or were they merely statistics?"

"…I loved _parts _of them! Hahaha…Whoo. I crack myself up."

"See? I like June a lot. She's not just some girl there to bang behind the curtains and then leave! I'd like to _date_ her…"

"So ask her out, coward. The worst she can do is reject you. And I'm sure you'll recover just fine, seeing as you've gone _so_ long without makin' love. Why start now?"

"Benny you are impossible."

"I'm serious man, just do it. What have you got to lose?"

"Oy vey is mir..."

"Ha ha, _what_? Whoa, Mark, did you just swear at me in _Jewish_?"

"What? I did? Oh…heh…uhhh…no, no I didn't swear. And that was Yidd- Okay, Benny? I said _nothing_."

"Whatever you say man..."

"Gornisht."

"Okay, now you're just doin' that to freak me out. Uh...gesundheit!"

"You're getting there. That's German."

"Since when did you switch to Foreign Relations as your major?"

"Since I'm pathetic and I can't even control my own speech I like her so much!"

"Wow, this is bad."

"You know what? I'm going to bed."


	13. Chapter 13

I had a break from A.M. classes starting a week before Halloween. I don't know why I clipped them so close, but I was thankful for the opportunity to sleep in. Like an imbecile, I'd scheduled all my non-film classes in the mornings. As if I had drive or determination that early…

Eight A.M. the morning of Halloween, I was dead asleep, drooling, half-naked, and half out of bed. Suddenly, the phone blared the sharp '_brreeeeennggg_' that I despised so much, indefinatelyshattering the silence that enveloped the dorm. Why couldn't it just ring like _normal_ phones? And why was it pea soup green? What a repulsive color for a phone...

I listened to it ring about eight times, keeping my head on the pillow. I lazilywatched the green receiver wiggle with each vibration, out of focus and fuzzy without my glasses on. The blanket was tangled tightly around my left arm, cutting off my blood pressure, so I made no attempt to pick it up and stop the noise. I squashed my face into my sheets, nuzzling the crusty shit out of my sleepy eyes.

Groggily I sat up, and talking to a half-asleep Benny across the room, asked, "Benny, why the fuck is our phone so ugly?"

"Mark, I don't fuckin' know. But you better pick it up real soon or I'm going to shoot something."

"God. Why do _I_ get the bed by the phone table, damn. H-hello?"

"Hello?"

"Hello? Who is this?"

"Who is _this_?"

"This is Mark. Who are _you_?"

"Yes. This is Michael Wilson from Studio Six…?"

"Oh my God. I mean- hi, hello! How- how are you? Sorry! I just- wasn't expecting a-"

"Yes, that's fine. Listen, Mr. Cohen? Lauren Finn, the executive producer, maybe you remember her?-"

"Yeah! Lauren…yes."

"Yes, anyway, she sent me a memo here- she's interested in seeing your treatment. She's up for a working title. Can you come down, possibly today, and give a presentation?"

"Wh- uh- Uh, yes! Yes, of course I can. Does she need anything specific? Do I need to bring-"

"Mr. Cohen, just bring your script and maybe the clip you showed me."

"Oh. Okay…Um…what time are we looking at?"

"Whenever you can get here. Lauren's in her office now."

"Okay, gimme…gimme two seconds. I'll come right over. I have class at four, so it'll have to be now."

"Great. Thanks Mark. Good luck."

"Yeah! Okay, thanks. See you."

I hung up the phone and then stared at my pillow.

Then it hit me.

"AAAHHH BENNY! I just got a call from an executive producer! She wants to see my treatment! Aahh! Benny, she's based in New York! Do you know what this _means_? Oh my God. Oh my God. What do I wear? I didn't wash- shit! The only nice fucking shirt I have- I think I left it in the QuickWash…Shit. Oh fuck. Uhh…no, it's okay. I'll keep my jacket on. It's chilly. They won't notice…"

"For Pete's sake Mark. I was _trying_ to sleep but now I _gotta_ get up and bitch you out! Listen. When you go to interviews, in hopes of putting your name out there, and you talk face-to-face with big shots- _buy_ _nicer_ _clothes_. Make an impression! Honestly dude, when you went in there last Thursday, did you go in thinking, 'Well this is gonna suck?"

"No…I-"

"No. You went in with high hopes and obviously were correct. Tell me why you didn't go shopping for a sport coat right after that?"

"Because…I spent all my money on the equipment to make the film to present in the first place?"

"Ah- You- Okay. You know what? Here. Borrow my vest and tie. You ain't that much skinnier than me. I want my name in the fucking credits of that movie for this though."

"Oh Benny. 'This movie is dedicated to Benjamin Coffin. Without his overcoat, production never would've been possible."

"That's what I'm sayin'. Now go away."

--

"...Studio Six is about three miles outside of Providence. It's a completely random branch of a major New York City based corporation in the theater district. I have no idea to the origins of its existence, except that maybe one day a couple years earlier somebody said, 'Oh, we should plunk a little production studio right here in the middle of nowhere in these here trees.' Watch out for pinecones..."

"Ha, that _is_ weird. Uh, hey-did I tell you that you look pretty spiffy today?"

"No, you hadn't mentioned... Although that compliment would be taken a lot more whole-heartedly if these were actually my clothes."

"They- what?"

"Nope. I'm borrowing Benny's shirt. And...overcoat. Oh, and his pants. In my complete lack of organization, I couldn't exactly find my own dressy clothes this morning."

"Man, and for a minute I thought you might've actually had an ounce or two of fashion sense behind that camera."

"Ha ha. I'm not laughing."

-

-Out of the certain drunken buzz I get from adrenaline, I decided to call June and have her tag along to the interview. That way I'd have someone to celebrate with if it went well, and a travel companion for the long road back if it didn't. And, just be around June in general.

We took public transportation- me, never feeling the need for a driver's license, and her, spending all her gas money on theater props (I adored her dedication) we stumbled onto the bus stop in front of the main building and sat together in the back of the bus, voicing our vicious and opposing opinions all the way there.

The bus's heater was defunct, and even though it wasn't even November yet, our breath puffed out in little vaporized clouds with every complaint and opposition. I shivered, although not visibly. I had to be a _man_. I wasn't cold... Not with her watching.

June, on the other hand, shook like a tree in the wind. I didn't know if she realized this or not, but her overwhelming need to be poetic in a mere black turtleneck and beret (so sexily cocked to one side over her sweeping bangs) contributed naught to any warmth.

I crammed the portfolio with my screenplay inside between my legs, and jammed my ice cold hands deep into the pockets of my jacket. Suddenly, the bus lurched sharply around a corner, sending me crashing into June. I couldn't regain my balance to due my lack of hands, so she giggled and pushed me back upright with a groan. I threatened to tilt back toward her, but instead she slid closer to me, sandwiching my body between her hip and the window to keep me straight up and down.

"Whoa." I said. "Sorry about-"

"_That's okay_..." She purred. Ever so slowly, she peered up at me from beneath the brim of her hat. She flickered her eyelashes, dark eyes lingering on my face. I found myself locked in her gaze, staring back, forgetting to breathe.

She leaned in closer, pressing her cheek into my shoulder.

I gulped.

Her arm slid through mine, and she gently took hold of my palm, lacing our fingers together inside my pocket. Nuzzling her thigh up against my leg, she moved our hips closer together. I pressed my feet firmly to the floor and bit my lip. I wanted to squirm. I wanted to thrash. I wanted to wriggle away and _get. out. of. here. _Alarms blared in my head. The classic Mark Cohen fight or flight response. Oh how I needed to push her aside and _stand up_. Dear Lord, was this really happening?

_Now_ I began to shiver. The left side of my body was freezing, the cold aluminum of the bus leaking a chill through my clothes, October wind whipping and whistling noisily outside the window above my head. But the right side- that- that was _warm_. That was _nice_. A desiccated tremor stirred at my fingertips, and kept moving on down. I shook so hard it sent a vibration through both of us.

I tried swallowing but my throat was dry. "Uh- June?"

"What?" She asked, sounding suprised. She turned to stare innocently into my eyes, sticking out her bottom lip slightly. "I'm cold."

I looked away, sitting perfectly still for a minute. Not even the frequent bumps in the country road broke my statuesque pose. If I didn't look at her, maybe she'd forget I was next to-

She tapped my ankle with the toe of her sneaker, breaking my stupor. She rested her chin on my shoulder, to take me in.

After a brief hesitation, she smiled.

"Mark," She whispered."It's okay..."

And then I remembered to breathe.

Smiling discreetly- maybe even a bit cockily, I squeezed warmth into the hand nestled inside my pocket.


	14. Chapter 14

I failed in getting any further than holding hands.

But I _wasn't_ complaining.

The last fifteen minutes of the bus ride were spent in complete euphoria, my heart thundering in my chest, June's soft hair pressed up against my neck, her head leaning on my shoulder. I loved the way she smelled.

Like ginger.

With nothing else to do but explore the waves in her hair and sniff her, I sat with my chin on her head and examined.

I concluded that she smelled like a basement party- but not a party exactly. More like a _gathering_. A little get together where everyone's collected and propriety just hangs in the air while everyone nods and agrees to a round of beat poetry and black coffee.

Yeah, that was it.

She smelled like ginger and black coffee and a group of people splayed on a shag carpet playing tarot and talking about the little antique shop they went to last night. She smelled exotically musty, like she'd been everywhere without really ever leaving. And I wanted her to stay with her cheek on my shoulder, with her eyes closed so she could somehow incorporate _me_ into that mix.

"...You smell good." I assured her.

My stupid compliment broke the silence that had settled over the bus since she'd snuggled up to me.

She didn't respond. She just remained on my shoulder with her eyes closed.

I kept staring down at her, and eventually I laid my head onto hers, immediately feeling the twang of '_what're you doing?_', but then the feeling passed and I relaxed.

This was still really bizarre. I kept thinking that I might be dreaming, but I was too overjoyed and shocked to refute myself. This _was_ indeed real. I don't know how it possibly could've happened, but it was happening!

I got somewhat of a rude awakening when the bus churned to a stop in front of the studio. I didn't want to get up! I didn't want to present _now_. June picked the _perfect_ time to fulfill my dreams…

I exhaled nervously and June opened her eyes and stood up, releasing her hand from my grip. Instantly sweat poured off my palm- a mixture of anxiety and body heat. I wiped it off on the inside of my pocket and rose to stand beside her.

She smiled, and I smiled back.

Nothing needed to be said.

--

Stretching my legs, I walked stiffly down the paneled hallway to Lauren Finn's office. My stomach clenched with a mix of fear, happiness, excitement and embarrassment; the latter being induced by the bus driver saying, "You two lovebirds have a great day now…" as June and I exited the bus. This got my emotions on the fritz again, and I stepped a few inches away from June to wordlessly show her that I wasn't jumping to conclusions, even if that bus driver was.

But _lovebirds_? I certainly hoped so…

My spirits were soaring when I reached Lauren's office doorway. I must've came in looking like the most confident client ever to give a private screening.

My grin even seemed to perk Lauren up, because her stern corporate stare waivered slightly and she flashed a friendly smile as I walked in the door.

"Hello! You must be Mark."

"Uh, hi, yeah! Thank you- thanks so much for taking the time to see me!"

"My pleasure. I'm very interested in seeing your treatment. The clip you went over with Mr. Wilson was very interesting, I must admit…"

"Well thank you so much again! Really, I'm flattered. It's an honor to even be in this office! Would you- would you um, like to read over the script? I have it here…"

"Sure! Glad to see you're prepared."

I handed her the measly screenplay from the portfolio.

It was only ninety-five pages.

I was troubled about the studio's interest to view _this_ particular movie of mine. It was a rather dumb romantic comedy, drafted years earlier, shot in only six days with a budget of $1,000.

It needed work, that was for sure.

I think the studio admired it for the editing and cinematography. Those were my strong points. The writing was choppy and immature. It had wit, but it was simple, and a few of the lines were even contributed by Roger, months ago. It starred all but three actors- all acquaintances from the theater department, who agreed to the six day shoot with no pay.

It was the epitome of a student film.

The clip I chose was twenty minutes or so. I shifted nervously in the swivel chair and restrained myself from calling on my editing mistakes every time they flashed onscreen.

When the projector whirred to a stop and the fluorescent lights turned back on, Lauren turned to me, nodding contently. "Very good. Very good. I liked that a lot. I think, what we'll do Mr. Cohen, is that we'll keep a copy of your script for reviewing and get back to you after some deliberation."

"Great! Sure! No problem. Would you like to keep the clip as well?"

"No. That won't be necessary." She pried the reel off the projector and handed me my film and its case. "I like your style."

She walked me to the door, fingering through my script. Distractedly she said, "Thank you for coming in…" and ushered me into the hallway.

That was such a quick interview. I wondered if that was good or bad…?

--

Any doubts vanished when I saw June perched in a chair, waiting for me in the lobby. I wanted to leap up and kick my heels together and whoop for joy- but instead I kept my head down and beelined to her.

She glanced up from the issue of 'Vouge' that she was reading and untucked her legs from under her. She raised an eyebrow, and concerned, she whispered, "How'd it go?"

I frowned and shrugged. "I have no idea. I _think_ it went well. It didn't go _badly_… I mean, she seemed very interested…" I shifted the camera bag on my shoulder nervously.

June set down her magazine and leapt to her feet. She elbowed me in the ribcage, skipping ahead of me to the exit.

"Well then, c'mon lovebird, let's blow this popcorn stand…"

Automatically, I followed.

--

The next bus home didn't come for another hour. It was much too awkward (for me anyway) to sit and wait on the rocks lining the driveway outside, so we decided to take a walk along the coast.

A small path lined with beech planks ran along the Atlantic to the east and woods tangled mysteriously to the west. Small patches of prairie grass sprung up occasionally in the gray sand and waved madly in the wind. The ocean crashed deafeningly under the October sky, and small whitecaps brutally lapped the frozen shore.

We held hands and walked along in silence, bracing ourselves from the howling wind. Neither of us looked at each other, or attempted conversation. The noises of the bay spoke volumes.

Somehow, I caught June's eye and she giggled.

"Happy Halloween…" She whispered, staring out over the majestic ocean.

We stopped walking to look together, the blustery weather whipping June's maple locks around to frame her face. She leaned up against a driftwood fencepost, and I stepped in front of her to block the cutting wind.

"You too-" I replied.

And suddenly, her arms were around my neck, and we were kissing.


	15. Chapter 15

A few weeks later, sometime before Thanksgiving, Benny and I were walking together on his way to class. I was going to the theater building to help June hang the banners for 'Othello's opening night. We made our way past the campus' Robinson Hall when we stopped dead on the lawn and stared up at the ancient brick towers in horror.

Instead of the Gothic windows and sloping roofs spanning the crest of the building, a gigantic white sign covered the entire top of the Hall.

A fairly decent hand-drawn computer extended the length of the poster. In crimson paint, hastily sprayed, the screen read:

**Reagan is NOT the solution to our problem. Reagan IS the problem!**

"Oh, my God…" Benny whispered.

"Well!" I laughed. "Whoever did this was NOT a member of the Brown administration! They're all so fucking conservative. I'm surprised they haven't set the thing on fire yet! I wonder how long it's been up there?"

"That paint looks fresh." Benny concluded. "It couldn't have been up there that long!"

"I wonder if they did it in the cover of darkness."

"Well obviously! It's not like the Dean just handed them a ladder and let 'em go at it!"

A large commotion erupted from the few trees to our left. A small group of people burst forth at a run, pounding like a frantic stampede straight at us. Benny and I looked at each other in horror, eyes wide, and then dove out of the way before the group trampled us to death. They ran past like a rag-tag assemblage of tribal chanters, squealing, yelling, whooping, and calling, "There are no loopholes in the tax code! Impeach Reagan! No loopholes! No tax cuts! Down! With! Reagan!"

A few runners at the back spotted us on the ground and changed their course. They bumbled over to us, stomping their shoes and sandals angrily. They bent down near our faces and jeered, "Are _YOU_ Republican?"

They didn't look dangerous or armed. Just stoned and highly political.

I couldn't contain my laughter and amusement. I snorted, "Well, I think _he _might be!" and pointed to Benny on the ground beside me.

Benny yelped and slapped my hand away. "What? Mark! No! You little snitch, I'm not Republican!" He looked at the activists seething above him. "Really, I swear to you I'm not!"

"_Whoo_ did _yoou_ vote for?" They chanted eerily. They sounded like dead owls. I kept laughing.

"Honestly? I didn't vote at this election. That's the truth." I held up my hands.

"And what about _yoou_?"

"No, no, me neither! I was on vacation in Tahiti!"

They fell silent and I looked at Benny skeptically.

"Really?"

He pursed his lips and through clenched teeth hissed, "…_Mark_…"

"Calm down." I stood up and the protestors backed off a bit.

I held out my hand to help Benny up. "I really don't think these guys are gonna kill anyone..." I turned to the group and pointed up at the building behind us. "Did you guys hang this?"

They all grinned at the awed tone of my voice, and muttered cockily, "Yeah, yeah, that was us…" and "Yep, we hung it…"

"Neat!" I crooned. "How did you guys get it up there?" I took out my camera and began filming the scraggly hippies.

"Mark! Don't encourage them!" Benny hissed from beside me. I pushed his shiny head back with my palm and laughed. "Oh calm down Benny. I think this is cool. It's about time someone did something."

Several campaigners whooped in agreement and patted me on the back. "You wanna join us man? Reagan is not the solution! Impeach! Impeach! Down! With Reagan!" They broke into another hearty chant.

"Aw, Mark! Now look what you got them doing again!"

"I know! This'll make great footage for my final! And I'm sure Roger would love to get in on this!"

The first half of the group, who hadn't stopped to intimidate us, came jogging back to join the chant.

"Down! With! Reagan! Down With Reagan!"

They danced in a circle, elevating their volume, and admired their poster, until someone in the back hollered, "_STOP_!"

They all fell silent and turned to whoever had shouted.

The group parted down the middle so the speaker could step forward.

He was a rather burly black man, maybe five or six years my senior, with a skull cap screwed tightly to his head, clothed in a vest covered in patches, rips, buttons and slogans. He stomped his untied combat boot at me in a similar fashion as his comrades had earlier. I wondered if it was an attempt to terrorize me.

It didn't work. I stood my ground and filmed the procession. Benny whimpered and stepped back.

"Hey!" The man called. "Why are you filming? Is this for the administration? For the _news_? Because if it is then tell them I said-" He promptly dropped his pants and mooned the camera, flipping off the lens from between his legs. "-_FUCK_ _YOU_!"

All his followers screamed with delight and some followed suit.

I kept filming. Disgusted, Benny covered his eyes and mumbled, "Ludicrous, all of you…"

The man pulled up his trousers and smiled. I lowered the camera so he could see my face and smiled back.

"Nope!" I piped. "No affiliation with Brown whatsoever. Or any college, company, or organization for that matter. I'm a mere film student. Oh, and for the record? I'm a Democrat."

"And he's fucking insane." Benny added under his breath.

"Ha!" The man clapped his hands together with glee. "Well then hello there non-affiliated Democratic fucking insane film student! I am Thomas B. Collins,"

He roared a hearty laugh that reminded me of the lion from 'The Wizard of Oz', and continued his speech.

"But I go by many different titles, among them: anti-archon, advocate of consensus reality, protestor, pothead, ho-mo-sexual, student of Stallman, thief, god, God with a _capital_ 'G', liberator, c_rrrr_azy bitch, entrepreneur, culinary art-_eest_, advocate, seven-time traffic violator, fag, teacher's aid, criminal, saint, commando, master of disguise, mistress of the dark," He took a breath. "…and my friends," He made a sweeping motion with his hand over his adoring fans, "call me Collins."

It all sounded very rehearsed, but I clapped in adoration nonetheless and bowed.

"Pleasure to meet you Thomas B. Collins! I'm…Mark Cohen. Do you mind…if I use this for my filmography final?"

"If that fabulous close-up of my hairy ass won't get you expelled, then you are granted my full permission. Actually, if it gets you expelled, that's even better." He grinned.

"Mark!" Benny bleated. "Why are we still here talking to these people? We've gotta go. Let's go."

Collins peered around my shoulder quizzically and looked comically back at his following. He shook his finger at Benny.

"Who is _you_?" He said mockingly, in a very ghetto tone.

"I am Benjamin Coffin III."

"Gasp. Say it isn't so!"

"Wh- you- you've heard of me?"

"No." Collins sneered. "But your last name is _Coffin_. And that's fucking hilarious. Mark Cohen film student? Is Coffin here a Republican?"

"I…cannot tell a lie."

"Mark you're a traitor."

"What? We're not going to kill you or anything…"

"_Told _ya Benny…"

"…We're just marking our targets when we bring in the snipers next month!"

"Ah!"

"Run along children!" Collins danced a little jig and shooed the protestors forth. They whooped and resumed running and bellowing. Benny shook his head and made his way to class.

Collins spun on his heel and turned to me, tipping off his little hat and bowing. He gyrated his hat in the air, and caught it atop his head, reached into his pocket and whipped out a business card, all in one swift motion. I watched, amazed, and took the card from his outstretched fingers.

"I am currently on an East Coast college _tour_. Meaning it's sweeps week. We're hitting every mildly right-leaning college and inflicting as much bloodless damage as we can to scare the _institution_ out of its biased frenzy. We are the black bloodstain on the political spectrum, from Hanover to Marblehead!We are the news story you want, but you cannot have because we dodge the _censors_, amigo! Fear us! Rawr!" He giggled at his own silliness. "But my day job is philosophy teacher's aid at M.I.T. Soon to be promoted. Then," He whispered, "I can take them down from the inside out- starting in Massachusetts! Muuhahahahahaaa… Wow, Cambridge. Big whoop, yes? No? Are you mocking me? Listen artist- they mocked Picasso before he puked up Guernica. Yeah, anyway? If you can, make a copy of that semi-porno you've got of me and send it to this address, Attn: Prof. Collins, okay? I plan to use it as a training video for the children."

I nodded happily. "Sure!"

"You're fucking groovy, film kid. Groovy like a flag in the _wind_…Whoosh!" He giggled again and continued. "If you want compensation, you know, for the movie, then…uh, up yours commie! I don't believe in _cash _for shit that should be _free_. That film might be Oscar-worthy but I ain't payin', sorry! Love is free, sex is free, and so is exposure and exploitation." He twirled around and hugged my shoulders.

"See you around Cohen. Make _magic_. And...tell the Coffin to get laid."

With that he whooped a guttural yell and raced off toward his mob of friends.

I shook my head and laughed openly.

College was turning out ten times cooler than I'd ever anticipated.


	16. Chapter 16

I punched in the numbers to Roger's phone, waiting impatiently for him to pick up.

"Hello?"

"Hi…is…Roger there?"

"Yeah, he's here. Who's calling?"

"Mark."

"Oh. Yeah, um, Roger is kinda… he's like, fucked up right now or something. Can you call back later?"

In the background:

"Who's on the phone?"

"Mark."

"Oh my God. Let me talk to him."

The first voice came back on the phone. "Okay, I guess he wants to talk to you. But be careful what you say though. I don't know what's wrong with him, but he's been acting like a fucking recluse. Here Roger, take the phone."

The were muffled sounds of the phone being transferred, and then Roger's voice.

"Mark?" He sounded congested.

"Roger! Hi! Are you- are you okay?"

"Mark-" He fell silent.

I stared at the receiver for a second.

"Roger…are you still there?"

"Mark, when are you coming?"

"When- what? Coming where? To New York?"

"Yeah." He sighed.

"Well Roger- I can't just-…Christmas break, I promise. That's as soon as I can. Why? Are you okay?"

"Mark, I…need you here."

"Roger, what is _wrong_? You don't sound good at all. Are you sick?"

"Mark, I'm not sick. There's no way you can come any sooner?"

"No- I can't- I have classes with only two day weekends until the middle of December. ...Is this an emergency?"

There was silence again, and my heart sped up a little. "Roger, where did you go? Can you hear me?"

"Mark, I just- I can't- I don't know. I really don't know. I- just…I miss you Mark."

"Roger you're scaring me. What is _wrong_? Look, I'd _live_ there if I could. But I need you to hang in there, okay? You never call! I mean- I'm not accusing you, but I'm left in the dark all this time and all the sudden you're like _this_? What's the matter? If there's something wrong you can _tell_ me, you _know_ that!

Listen...I'm not going to class today. June and I- Oh Roger! You don't even _know_ about June! There's _so_ much we need to talk about. I want to tell you- you needto- do you need to talk?Here- I'll tell you what. Hang up and call back collect, okay? That'll be easier for the both of us. Do you wanna do that?"

"Listen, I didn't mean to scare you. You don't have to worry about me."

"It's okay Roger. Now here- I'm gonna hang up, but then you call right back collect, okay?"

"Yeah."

I hung up the phone and waited.

It never rang.

I tried the apartment and no one answered.


	17. Chapter 17

Roger decided tocall on Thanksgiving.

Benny answered the phone, since I was out monitoring 'Othello's' final performance.

"Hello?" Benny answered.

"Hi. Is…Mark there?"

"No- he's, I think he's at a production right now. Can I take a message?"

"Uh- no- can you just tell him that Roger called and…that... I'm really sorry?"

"Wait- you said you were Roger?"

"Yeah, Roger Davis."

"New York Roger?"

"Yeah. Look, can you just tell him I called?"

"Of course. But Mark had a message for you too, it's been by the table for a while."

"Oh. Uh- okay."

"It says, 'Tell Roger that I can probably come in the beginning of December if that's a good time for him. Tell him that I hope he's okay and I'll call him back to discuss any plans. And he better answer this time.' Does that sound right? Are you _this_ Roger? The best friend?"

"Look, I don't know who you are, but thanks, okay? Bye-"

"Well! I'm Benny, Mark's roommate? I'm sorry if I'm pissing you off dude, but I think you need to know how much Mark cares about you. He's gonna be gone into tomorrow, so what should I say about him coming in December?"

"Benny? Is that your name? You're his _roommate_, not his secretary. I'd _rather_ just talk to him myself."

"All right all right, I'll let him know you called. Which will probably make his day since you _never_ call…"

"Dude, are you trying to start shit over the phone?"

"No, no, sorry. Like I said, I don't expect him back until tomorrow though."

"Whatever. Thanks."

"No problem."

Benny prepared to hang up, but caught Roger's voice before the receiver landed.

"Wait, wait, Benny?"

"Yeah?"

"Okay, tell him…whenever he can come..Tell him to come."

"Okay."

"Thanks. And um…sorry."

--

June's show was an enormous success. All the actors and actresses received standing ovations and a full house every night of the show's run.

On the final performance- Thanksgiving- I stood in the wings and waited for June with a bouquet of roses and baby's breath.

She came around the corner mobbed with fans and friends. But she saw me and cheered, breaking away from her entourage to throw herself at me, screaming, "We did it, we did it!"

I managed to get the roses out of her crushing grip, grabbing her with my free arm and spinning her around. She kissed me clumsily on the mouth midair, out of excitement, knocking my glasses askew. Embarrassed, I pushed them upright and held out her flowers.

She didn't seem to notice, and bounced off in another direction, confused to which group of oncoming theatergoers to mingle in first.

"June!" I called after her, feeling stupid that the girl I was dating totally just overlooked the bouquet I had picked out for her.

She spun around, scanning the crowd to see who had shouted her name, and then her eyes fell on me holding out the roses and looking disheartened.

She bolted back, covering her mouth in embarrassment.

"Mark!" She squealed. "Were those for _me_?"

"Um…_yeah_…" I blushed and handed them to her.

"Oh my gosh! Mark! I _totally_ saw those before and thought someone gave them to _you_! I'm SO sorry! You deserve them just as much!"

She plucked two roses from the arrangement and handed them to me, grabbing my other hand.

Turning to the doors, she stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled a shrill tweet.

Everyone stopped their clatter to turn and face the director.

"ATTENTION EVERYONE!" June called. "Hello? Hi! As you may know- I'm June- the play's director. I'm SO very honored that everyone came out tonight, and all those other nights, to support me, and all these fabulous actors, and the school- or- just to enjoy a good, heartfelt tragedy..." The crowd laughed.

"Honestly, I really appreciate all of you coming and I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart, but you must take note! This production would not have been possible without the people _behind_ the curtains! I'd like you all to meet Mark- my boyfriend- and the head of production of 'Othello.' Without him, there wouldn't have been a play tonight. So if you could just give him a big round of applause-?"

She leapt up and kissed me again, holding up my hands and shaking them like a boxing champion.

The onlookers erupted into cheers, applause flooding down the hallway. I blushed a deep, deep scarlet and covered my face with the bouquet.

Burying my head into June's shoulder I hissed, "You _really_ didn't have to do that…"

Covering my face, I looked up at the crowd and nodded, calling feebly, "Thank you, thank you so much."

Some of my friends were in the audience and they hollered out, "Yeah Mark!" or "You go boy!"

I was on top of the world.

--

...I wound up losing my virginity that night.

A few hours and a few flowers later we were in June's dorm room, and it was awkward as ever.

I speak of it casually, but we were both so ill at ease asto what happened next that it just seemed like the next step.

It...happened like I'd imagined, in 'the throes of passion', on her roommate's couch.

Somehow, I'd become incredibly skilled at foreplay, only having dated her for less than a month. I took pride in that.

As of tonight, she considered me her boyfriend, and apparently she wanted to _go_.

I often wondered how it would happen- and with who.

I used to think, in my earlier teenage years, that I'd remain chaste until after marriage. Not because I couldn't get a girlfriend, but because it was chivalrous and orthodox.

But June on top of me with her shirt off and her hands down my pants caused that to become an outdated and innocent notion at breakneck speed.

I couldn't say if it was romantic or not- or if June was 'the right person', but looking back, the fact that I'm questioning it, she probably wasn't…

It might not have been the life-altering moment mentioned in the birds and the bees talks, but it was _good_.

June was good (she was no virgin) and I suppose I did all right. June picked up on my inexperience and guided us along.

It was sort of an out-of-body experience, watching myself go at it on someone else's futon with an assortment of crumpled bouquets strewn on the floor.

We...both climaxed. That was fun.

Oh who am I kidding, that part was _amazing_.

We ended up on the floor, panting, and all June said was, "Oh Mark…" which was pretty much the sexiest thing ever.

We kissed for another half hour, and then retreated to June's bed for the routine bickering. We argued about some of my cues and I criticized her casting of Desdemona's understudy, but all I could really think about the whole time was how incredibly hot June was, and how I'd just had sex for the first time. I ended up with another erection, which just sent June into hysterics, and she punched me and laughed so hard she almost fell out of the bed.

I caught her, which made her laugh even harder. I just stared at her until she quieted down, and eventually she set her jaw and turned to me, looking me in the eyes and speaking in all seriousness.

"Mark?" She asked."How old are you?"

I scowled, as I thought this was a weird question.

"I turned nineteen in September." I replied. "Why?"

"Oh…nothing. Just wondering."

I raised an eyebrow and shook my head, settling down under June's silky pink sheets. Sighing happily, I put my arm around her and we fell asleep like that.


	18. Chapter 18

Roger and I finally ended up connecting the last day of November.

He picked up the phone on the first ring, as if he knew it was me that was calling.

"Hello?"

"Roger!" I was genuinely startled to hear his voice. His lungs sounded clear this time, but there was still a lingering hint of depression.

"Mark."

"…Before we start talking- are you going to abandon me this time?"

"No Mark," he snapped. "I promise I won't."

"Okay, because I want to come. I really want to come."

"Well the door is open. It always is."

We were both silent for a while. I thought about what to say. What to do.

"I feel like such a fucking tool out here Mark!" Roger broke the silence. "Like I'm living one big cliché. It's not supposed to _be_ like this…"

"Whoa. What do you mean?"

"I fucking _love_ my life. So don't jump to conclusions about that, that's not what I mean. I'm living out my _dream_- my life is _perfect_. But I'm…It's different than I wanted it to be. I'm looking for something _else_. Like it's out of reach or something. I have the guts and the…and the _glory _and all the opportunity in the _world_… like it was just laid in my lap on a fucking golden platter. It's easy. It's _too_ easy. I have the band and I have my guitar and I have…_you_, and hundreds of fans- I mean, _come on_, how _consecrated_ am I? But I don't have…what the fuck is it! I don't have the _passion_. It exists! It comes out a little bit every time I step up to the microphone. I can feel it deep down- it's there- but it needs... it needs- I don't know. I don't _know_ what it needs Mark, and that's the problem! A purpose? An outlet? A source?

You know what I'm doing out here? I'm playing music just to play fucking music. And once in a while I play music to _make money_. I don't want it to _be_ that way! I want to play music because I _need_ to. I want every lyric and every note to…fucking surge through my veins like it's _going_ somewhere! I mean- it's not routine, whatever I'm doing in this fucking city… Being a _rockstar_? That's what you say.It's not like the fanaticism is gone cause it's gotten mundane… but it's just _not_ who I am! I feel like I'm living a lie. I don't know. I don't… I'm sorry. Is any of this making any sense?"

I had to take a breath because I'd been holding mine the whole tirade.

"Roger! Yes Roger, oh my God." I swallowed. "If _anyone_ can make sense out of the world it's _you_! I don't know what to tell you...Fuck. Don't...don't lose hope. You made it this far for a reason. You just have to trust yourself to make things right again! I can't imagine why _you_, of all people, would wind up in such a bind, but just don't do anything stupid. Just be…_Roger_. That's never failed you before. It got you where you are now- I'm not saying that's your downfall, but it's too early in the game to even analyze! You'll work it out. You'll find whatever it is you're searching for- I _know_ you."

"And I _trust_ you. I'm not even going to second guess."

"And I'm _coming_ Roger. Less than a week and I can come and visit. And we can really _talk_. We won't have to worry about rushing in all this petty shit before we have to pick up the phone bill. Friday. I should be there Friday."

"Please. I'm holding you to that. Just show up."

"I will. I'll see you."

"See you Friday."


	19. Chapter 19

Benny was jealous that I got to go to New York.

He'd been praying for an internship with the Westport Realtor Group, and he whined about all the business opportunities I was going to pass up in every corner of the city.

"I'm a filmmaker Benny," I told him. "_Not_ a businessman. I'm going to visit my best friend. _Not_ make sales pitches. If you want it so bad why don't you just move there?"

"I just might. When I'm through with college, I just might. It's a big city Mark. It's gonna chew you up and spit you out before you even know what hit you. And you're delving in the big bucks. I don't know how an aspiring filmmaker's gonna make it out there unless you throw yourself in debt up to your eyeballs… Why don't you look into real estate? Condos, studios, 74th street penthouses…_There's_ the money!"

"Benny?" I said sternly. "I'm going to pretend like you never even asked me that question..."

--

The Monday night before the weekend I left, one of my friends from a fraternity invited me to a party. In my four months of college I hadn't done _any_ partying, and I figured since midterms weren't until next month I was safe to put the books aside. Besides, it was only one night.

June wasn't in her dorm or anywhere around campus, so I asked Benny to be my date. He was an old pro at frat parties, and demanded we pick up a few six packs to bring along as a peace offering.

I told him I didn't drink, and besides, I was too young to purchase alcohol anyway.

So we walked to the nearest gas station and Benny went in and bought beer.

"We come bearing gifts!" Benny chuckled as Kevin, the host of the party, opened the door.

"Aw man, fuckin' _awesome_! Come on in dudes!" He slapped Benny on the back and grabbed the sixers, tossing them onto a nearby table, already loaded with distilled spirits.

Kevin didn't even know Benny. But he had brought beer, and that's all that mattered to everyone within Kevin's circle of friends.

He didn't even acknowledge me as I passed him.

I shrugged it off, reminding myself that Kevin was of no great value or intellectual loss to me, and chased after Benny, who was already out and about hitting on girls in the throbbing mix of people dancing and grinding in the frat house's living room.

Normally, I hated parties. I usually only came to them to film interactions between people. But I didn't bring the camera this time. I'm not sure why- maybe because I just got swept up in Benny's urgency to leave.

So I wandered the lower part of the house, surveying the assortment of munchies laid (and spilled) about on the tables, and the people smashed off their asses laid (and spilled) about on the furniture and each other.

Most still able to stay on their feet swayed, staggered and yelled as if the place were full of deaf guests.

It was quite entertaining.

I thought of drinking myself, but then I shooed the thought out of my head and sat down away from the crowd to look things over.

In front of me, two sloppy drunks punched each other with football team strength, a contest to see who would be the first to tell the other to halt, start to bleed, or collapse.

Behind me the unpleasant sound of a retching person and their first four beers splashing into the toilet repulsed me to get up and walk away.

I went to go find Benny. After all, he _was_ my 'date'.

He was somewhere in the biggest gyrating group of partygoers when I found him.

He was a little tipsy, which made me giggle- and I managed to pull him away from the scantily clad sorority sisters he was dancing with to talk to him.

"Benny, I think I might head back to the dorm. I just remembered I hate parties like this."

"What?" He called over the throbbing music.

"You can stay here! I'm gonna head home!"

"Oh, okay! Whatever man! Are you sure?"

"Yeah, have a good time!"

"Oh, I am." He giggled, making a pelvic-thrusting motion at the mini-skirted pair watching us. I rolled my eyes as they summoned him back to the dance floor.

Shaking my head, I made my way to the back door, but smacked head first into a pretty-far-gone partier, nearly causing him to spill one of the two beers he was guzzling.

"Whoops! Sorry man!" I hollered.

"Nah- it's okay! The beer's okay!"

I smiled uneasily.

He turned to go into the large circle of people, but then stopped dead and turned around to face me, trying to focus on my face but failing drunkly.

"Hey…aren't you June's boyfriend?" He slurred, shaking a beer cup at me.

"Mark. Yeah."

"Whoa man. That's weird that you're at this party…"

"What? Kevin invited me. Why?"

He laughed menacingly. "Aw, dude, you don't _know_? Sorry man, but- but ah, well, _June_? She's _totally_ bangin' Lawrence Sanders upstairs _right now_, in Scott's bedroom. Ha ha. I thought you _knew_, dude!"

The floor raced up to my face and I had to grab the corner of a nearby table to steady myself.

I shook my head. "What? June _Phillips_? She's _what_?"

"Yeah man, June _Phillips_, that's her name! Hot little theater chick? Brown hair? Dude- aren't you _Mark_? Ha ha ha. Aw man, you better get up there and break that up man! Shit on your life! _Scandal_!"

"What? Wait- _what_? _Where_ is she?"

"Scott's bedroom man! Upstairs, down the hallway-"

I didn't even let him finish his sentence. I pushed him out of the way, nearly spilling his beer a second time, and took off towards the staircase at the back of the house.

I stumbled and shoved my way past staggering people, not caring if they fell or got pissed at me.

The hallway wound on forever, and people just kept getting in my way. My face got hotter and redder with every footfall.

I almost wiped out running up the stairs, grabbing the railing for dear life.

June was _what_? Scott's bedroom? _My_ June? My thoughts raced. What did that guy know? He was too inebriated to even concentrate on _my_ face, let alone two people in the dark…

I whipped around the corner and into a hallway. Another couple was standing outside of one of the doors, leaning against it and making out.

"Hey!" I called. "Do you- do you guys know which one is Scott's bedroom?"

The male half of the couple pulled his head out from the hairsprayed mass he was sucking face with.

"Yeah. It's this one." He said, kicking the door he was leaning up against.

"Oh shit." He said, pushing his girlfriend away. "You don't wanna go in there man."

My heart skipped a few beats.

"W-why?"

"Uh, because. It's…off limits. Kevin doesn't want partiers up here. Sorry dude." He shrugged and resumed kissing.

No. That wasn't going to work. I wasn't _that_ foolish.

I walked over and pulled him off his girlfriend by his collar, staring him in the eyes.

"Why can't I go in there?"

"Hey man!" He yelped, pushing me back with both arms. "Just go back to the party!"

"_No_!" I yelled and shoved him back, seizing the door handle. "Why can't I go in-" The door sprung open and I stumbled inside.

Janis Joplin's "Somebody to Love" whined out into the hallway, and the light from outside poured into the room, illuminating the scene on the bed.

"Mark!" Cried June, scrambling to cover her breasts with the sheet.

"Hey man-" Warned Lawrence Sanders, pushing off my girlfriend and rolling beside her.

He snatched his shirt off the floor, wiping the sweat from his brow and pulling it on, crawling off the bed and hastily pulling up his boxers.

"Damnit June! You said he wasn't gonna _be_ at this party!"

He zipped up his jeans and walked towards the door.

"Oh my God. Shut the fuck _up_ Lawrence! Mark! It's not what it looks like!"

I stood perfectly still in the doorway as Lawrence pushed past.

I just bit my lip and stared.

"Mark…" June whispered, rushing to pull on her pants under the sheets.

"J-June…how…could you?" My words were slow and pained, and echoed in my head.

"Mark! I- I just- you- you…You…were…so young, and…and you were so _adorable_, but…but…and, it was fun. Really it…was. I liked you. I _like_ you…but…"

"But _what_?"

"Mark! I like you a lot! You're so smart and funny, but I-"

"But you _used_ me." I clenched my jaw.

"No Mark! You just- you were…_nineteen_! You were a-a- _virgin_ for god sakes! I don't know what I was thinking, what I got myself into, but- you-"

"Spit it out June."

"You just weren't my type! I guess I just-"

"You know what June? I don't want to hear it. I don't care. I don't need- you don't have an explanation. I just- you- I thought- goodbye. Goodbye June. I'll see you around."

"Mark!" She called, leaping out of bed and running after me.

I bit my lip and squeezed my eyes shut, walking rigidly down the stairs and out the back door. June caught up to me and grabbed me by the shoulders, but I thrashed her off, throwing her down onto the cement walk.

"Mark!" She cried again, staring up at me, but I tuned her out, storming all the way back to Watermyn, blinking back tears.

I ran up the stairs and slammed the door, throwing my jacket on the floor and flopping down on the bed to punch at the headboard, the mattress, my face, the pillow…anything within reach.

"How could I be so _naive_!" I cried, covering my burning face.

The blinking red light of the answering machine caught my eye and I punched the 'on' button out of anger.

The tape whirred to life, and Lauren Finn's voice washed into the dormitory over my boiling wails.

"Hello, Mark Cohen? This is Lauren Finn calling. The execs have reviewed your film and discussed the aspects of passing it on to a major investing company. However, it turns out that no one is looking for a small budget film to show at this time. Sorry for any disappointment, and thank you so very kindly for coming in. We'll keep you in mind. If you'd like to come and pick up your script-" I punched the phone onto the floor, cracking the ugly pea-green receiver and yanking the chord from the wall.

The message cut off abruptly.


	20. Chapter 20

I tried telling myself otherwise, that I was just overreacting, but I was certain something within me died after that night. How fucking melodramatic.

I felt hardened and derelict, and I spoke to no one.

I felt worthless for thinking that my life was ruined over a stupid girl. I tried convincing myself that there were billions of other people in the world, suffering, dying, praying, and losing at life every minute, and that compared to them, I had it good.

But even that was no condolence.

I felt hollow. Like there was no reason for me to be wasting precious air on this earth anymore.

And suddenly, somehow the whole fucking world came to fall on _my_ shoulders, without warning. Everyone else's problems became _my_ responsibility because I wasn't responsible enough to keep watch on my own life.

I was a shell. June had sliced me open and gutted out whatever security I so vulnerably kept within my body.

But the pain turned from June and struck its blows at me, and suddenly her infidelity was _my_ fault too. I should've seen it coming. I should've known I was nothing but a stepping-stone, a fun little romp. Everyone sees, but just passes on by. I was wrong to think I had a chance at an actual relationship. What a laugh.

Mark Cohen doesn't _need_ love! He only gives it. He exists solely to serve others- to give his all and receive _nothing _in return...

I was exactly like Roger in that I was a tool. But I scorned Roger too.

Why did _he_ ever need me except for something in return? To follow my advice. To be inspired by my pep talks and to gain self-confidence by my kind words and unconditional care. All I did was give, give, give, and for _what_? To be _used_. To be _dumped_. And in Roger's case, one single phone call in _five_ months, asking me to come and _give_ some more. Because he couldn't handle the life laid out for him on a golden platter. He'd said it himself. He was unhappy because he was fucking _spoiled_.

I had to work for every last gift and necessity in my life just to use them on people without an ounce of gratitude in their veins.

And then I immediately extinguished those thoughts. I wasn't allowed to be that selfish. The right people would find their way into my life when the time was correct, I _knew_ that. I was a smart boy. I'd been blessed with the gift of friendship and enough sense to use it on those who needed it.

And then those contradicting thoughts were stomped out right back. I didn't need to _apologize _for anyone. I wasn't being selfish. I was facing reality.

I made sure my camera never left my side again. I needed to _film_ people, not interact with them. I wanted a purpose? Well here it was. It'd been there all along. I could live vicariously through others. I couldn't _trust_ them. But I could record them.

--

Benny tried fruitlessly to cheer me up. I was detached and despondent and any real attempts at conversation were cut short by me leaving the room with my fists balled, leaving Benny standing spurned and clueless.

He vocally counted down the days until I left to see Roger- as if I should be excited and look forward to Roger's discrepancy and dependency on my philosophies to set a path for his own wretched survival.

I thought of staying in Rhode Island- but then what kind of friend would I be? My thoughts kept turning on themselves and I couldn't make sense of anything.

I might be broken inside but I still had love to give and enough compassion for other humans to function by the Golden Rule.

I took precautions.

I rewrote my own values.

I created anambiance forthe balance between myself and the people around me.

Roger's angst and separation, I concluded, were the perfect equalizers for my downtrodden outlook.

As I boarded the bus for New York City, my thoughts finalized. The informality of a city where no one knows your name was _exactly_ what I needed. I prepared myself for insomnia and nights of meditating. Because indeed, that's why New York City existed.

There was so much going on there, you could forget about your own life and hone in on someone else's. On all the people worse off than you- suffering, dying, praying and losing at life out in the endless twisted streets, standing on corners, crouching on doorsteps.

_That_ was Bohemia.

It wasn't specific to New York, but it was anywhere that inspired unconventional ways of thinking. A utopia that acted as an introduction for everyone else's thoughts and dreams and hopes, all swarming together into one big synonymous haven.

That was the place for the outcast, the scathed, the rebellious and the bold. For detached filmmakers and tormented musicians in search of the heart of it all. An archytype for connection, above the simple aesthetic dependency that other artists needed for fame or fourtune or a sense of belonging. It was, in a way, _home_. Even if I didn't live there.

--

When my cab pulled up in front of Roger's apartment, he was sitting on the steps outside, in the snow, wearing only ripped jeans, his combat boots, and a thin sweatshirt. He also wore gloves with the tips of the fingers cut off, and he was trying desperately to hold a cigarette, but his blue, frostbitten fingers were too numb for any grip. He was _much_ skinnier and paler than the last time I'd seen him, and he'd gotten a buzz cut. Tiny snowflakes collected in what little bleach-blond hair remained on his head. The tips of his ears were a bright, frozen red.

I would've mistaken him for a homeless boy if I didn't know he lived here and I didn't instantly recognize his sullen, slouching pose.

Taking in his thinning figure, a tacit sense of worry immediatley nagged at the back of my mind, but I brushed it away.

That would end up being one of the biggest mistakes I'd ever make.

I stepped out of the cab slowly, squinting through the falling snow and regaining my footing on the icy curb.

"Hey stranger." I said quietly, standing exhaustedly at the door of the taxi.

Roger's freezing fingers dropped the cigarette into the snow and he cocked his head slowly to look up at me.

Gradually,the corners of his mouth turned up and he gave me the saddest happy smile I had ever seen.

He rose to his feet, and I found myself in tears before he could even embrace me.

He didn't know why I was crying, and the funny thing was- I didn't either.

But it felt _okay_ to cry here. To let out all the anger and rejection and revenge onto the shoulder of my friend.

We hugged on the curb for a long time. I eventually collected myself and let go, and Roger stepped back.

I averted my eyes and wiped them with my glove, turning to grab my camera bag from the snow. Roger took hold of my suitcase, trying ineffectively to carry it with his frozen hands. He shook the snow from his head and gestured inside.

"Come on." He rasped. "I think we've both got a lot to talk about..."


	21. Epilogue

Epilogue

Sometime after April's death, long after I'd dropped out of college, five _years_ after I'd visited Roger that December when he'd first started using, Roger made a confession to me.

It was during one of the hopeless, endless, agonizing nights of his withdrawal.

Most of that time he was too wounded to talk-too far gone in despair and craving and obscurity to craft any logic, let alone form words. But this night was different.

It was dead quiet that night.

--

I bolted upright in bed, immediately awake, the silence seizing me with such an unspeakable fear that I couldn't bring myself out of my room to go and check on him.

There were no pleas of 'Oh God Mark just let me go, just _one_ more hit, I promise…' there were no longing cries for April, no sounds of vomiting, or things being thrown about in self-hate or pain.

Just the deafening silence, and the comforting sounds of the apartment as it was before drugs had torn him apart.

I wasn't going to get up. I expected the absolute worst. I thought for sure he'd taken his life too, and I couldn't handle losing him.

So I just lay in bed and listened to the clock tick on my wall and the radiator whir away across the room, and I buried my face into Maureen's shoulder beside me and hid from the sunlight that would soon be making it's way through the window.

...I didn't want to be the one to find him.

I perfectly still and waited and listened and strained my bloodshot eyes for the first signs of morning.

--

But my bedroom door creaked open and Roger stepped halfway into the room and my whole body shook with such incredible relief.

"Mark?" He whispered.

He knew I was awake.

I was always awake.

"What do you need Roger?" I didn't mean for it to come out so harshly. The worry in my voice was still perceptible, and I was tired. Not tired from lack of sleep, but tired of caring so much.

"I need to talk to you."

"Can it wait until morning?"

"Neither of us is going to sleep."

I cursed him for knowing me so well. Or maybe I cursed myself for being so predictable.

"I already know what you're going to say."

"No you don't. Please get up. Before I change my mind. I have to get this off my chest. Before everyone else wakes up... I have to tell _you_."

What else could I possibly need to know?

I knew there was too much that Roger encased that he never told anyone. Things revealed too little or too late to make any difference. Things that nearly ripped our friendship apart, things that had destroyed his career, things that brought him to _ruin_.

I staredinto his sunken eyes, beads of persperation dotting his hairline. His jaw trembled with the swaggering audacity of a man who knew himself inside and out, but his chest heaved like a timid deer trapped in headlights. He didn't want to be here, gripping my doorway and waiting for me to cooperate. He wanted to be in a grimy back alley with a needle shoved three inches into his vein, pumping inpatience and strength. He hardly held on to enough vitality to say anything worthwhile anymore.

Or maybe…I did need to know. I thought I had Roger all figured out. I always thought that, as long as I'd known him. I thought I knew what was best for him and then he always would do something so totally degrading of my vision of him, something so unexpected I should've given up trying to figure him out. But being someone's 'best friend' does not mean you can read minds and pick fights.

It was about time he made his own decisions.

--

I rolled out of bed, tiptoeing quietly to Roger hunched in the doorway.

"What?" I wanted to push him away. I wanted his futile stature out of my room. I never wanted to see him _again_. I didn't care that his life had just fallen apart. He'd built it up that high. He was the reason I dropped out of college. Because I wanted to come and catch the pieces as they came crashing down. No. I didn't want to. I felt like I _had_ to. I was too good of a person. I was too caught up in life with Roger and a new start in New York. I contributed to this mess. Oh God. Again, it was my fault.

"No, let's go to my room. I want to explain."

"Explain _what_?"

He hesitated.

I sighed, shaking my head.

He wasn't going to explain. He was going to play mind games. He was going to swear at me and debase himself and tell me to go back to bed before I could experience the worst of the breakdown. He needed another ounce?Just a little one?I knew this. I knew him. I was tired.

"Explain _what _Roger?"

"Everything."

And so we sat on his bed and he told me. Everything.

Everthing I never knew and everything I never expected him to say.

He told me from the beginning, what went wrong and how. How he'd lost hope in himself and found heroin. How he'd abandoned all love and found April. I _knew _the basics. I found out eventually that he was in love. That part was easy. The heroin I'd figured out on my own. I assumed that was how he dealt with life. But that night, he filled in the blanks that he was too unwilling to ever reveal before.

He told me he used heroin to escape. To find a place where the passion was real, physically and mentally.

He stayed hooked because it helped him cope with the lifestyle he'd chosen. It was a given. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll.

This is where April came in. I met her when I finally left Brown to come and live with Roger. April and I were almost like brother and sister- there was a lot of Roger inside of her. I should've sensed her defeat as well.

He told me April used heroin to change.

To transform from the pretty young girl he'd passed by on the street to someone whose life was shattered beneath her, but she found a way to rise above that.

She stayed hooked because she liked who it made her become. It was her ability to shift. And it was their secret.

He told me he shot up when the trembling came back. When each breath and every heartbeat reminded him that the passion _could_ surge through his veins- when he allowed it to.

He could stop the sickness and remember.

He told me April shot up when the opportunity arose. When she was bored or feeling sorry for herself. For her life.

She could stop the mundane and remember.

Roger told me he regretted it when he saw _me_. I was the one person who _really_ gave a damn. And he regretted it when he caught sight of the real purpose in his life. When the passion came in a different form:

April.

He told me April regretted it when she saw _him_. But more importantly when she couldn't get a fix. When she stayed awake at night wondering what went wrong. And she regretted it when she held the one person who truly loved her for the pretty young girl she was:

Roger.

Roger didn't tell anyone about his habit because he was ashamed. He was mad that he'd taken the easy way out, and now he was dependant on it. He didn't tell anyone because he knew they'd plead for him to stop. But he didn't want to.

He told me April didn't tell anyone about her habit because she had no one to tell. She was happy she had something to be mysterious about. She didn't tell anyone because they'd make her stop. And she didn't want to.

Roger liked to do it after shows. To enhance the rush. To come down slowly in a back alley or an empty side street at sunrise and wander back home, wired to leave the past behind him.

He told me April liked to do it before shows. To enhance the rush. To come down slowly, staring up into his eyes, holding her past in plain sight.

He told me he fell in love with her because she was different. Because she could understand without an explanation. Because he could read her face and read her thoughts, and because she was a reflection of him.

He told me he thought April fell in love with him because it was the first time in her life that she'd really felt love. Maybe it was because he could understand without an explanation. Because he could read her face and read her thoughts, and suddenly, she wasn't a mystery.

He told me he stayed with her because she meant the world to him. Because she was his passion and his source and his purpose that he'd been looking for all along.

He told me that he thought April stayed with him because he meant the world to her. Because she finally knew what it was like to give love and get love in return.

He told me he withdrew not so much by choice, but because after April killed herself, he figured out that heroin was a false passion. That it could never replace what April was to him. That it served no other purpose anymore but to cloud his eyes and distort his reality and push away the memories he never wanted to disappear.

He told me he thought that April killed herself because she thought she was a failure. Because she contracted A.I.D.S. and gave the virus to the only person she ever loved. Because he was going to die too, and it was her fault.

And when he was finally through confessing, when he was too shaken up to push out any more words, when the sunlight streamed in through the window and made him turn his face away from me, I told Roger to please keep living.

Because April wasn't a failure. Because even if he didn't realize it, he recognized that passion was an external source.

I told Roger to keep living because April was watching and April was waiting, and no matter what, she would forgive him, and so would I.


End file.
